Til All Are One: In A Rising Darkness
by Komanah24
Summary: Vorns have gone since the fall of Sentinel Prime. The violence is only increasing and the whole planet is paying the price of war. Evil is on the rise; Megatron will stop at nothing to defeat the Autobots and reign supreme, thus instilling his corrupted rule over Cybertron. The Autobots are waging a losing war. Little do they know, darkness takes form as one of their own. Rated T.
1. Prologue

**_Disclaimer__: I do not own Transformers. This is the only time I shall be stating this obvious fact for this story. Enjoy._**

_Hello again everyone! I realize that this is a very late update and I am sorry for that. :( Silly me, those two weeks of not updating threw off my groove. *turns to past two weeks* "You threw off my groove!" (lol)_

_Anyway, this is the beginning of book number two. :)_

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

Firefly bits back a giggle as she cuddles her young son. He is so beautiful and perfect. She smiles down at the squirming sparkling in her arms. Prowl had been so sure she was going to have a femmeling, he will be surprised, but still ecstatic when he hears the news. She can't wait to take the long awaited trip to the Iacon base where her beloved sparkmate is stationed as active Head Tactician to Optimus Prime. She is proud of her bond-mate and his accomplishments, his willingness to sacrifice everything to ensure the freedom of Cybertron.

"I can't give you a designation without Prowl here to help me," she whispers to the new-spark. He stares up at her with large round optics, gurgling happily and smiling at her brightly.

Firefly sighs in contentment as she slowly climbs the large metal stairs to her one tiny room apartment. Though she may be just getting by, she definitely is not poor. No, she has seen the poor of Praxus in the slums of the city, and she considers herself very well off in comparison.

"Do you want to go visit your daddy, Prowl?" Firefly asks the little yellow sparkling as she reaches her door. The mechling laughs out loud and reaches for his Carrier's faceplates as she punches in the code to unlock the apartment.

As she enters into her living quarters she instantly feels something isn't right. Something is wrong. Her optics narrow at the darkness of the room and she scans every corner with suspicion. She sees no one, but as a precaution she extends her energy readers. A small flare of a signature brushes her own and her spark jumps. Someone is here!

Firefly clutches her son protectively to her chassis hiding him from the room and its perpetrator. She will protect him with her spark. Venting deeply to gain courage she commands the lights to activate and at the same instant she initiates her small, lone subspace cannon. Prowl had made her get it installed when his duties to the Prime had grown, thus keeping him in Iacon for orns _(1 orn= approx. 1 week)_ at a time. She is now thankful that she had given in to his constant worrying as she scans the room once more and sees no one or nothing out of place. Had she just imagined it? She lowers her arm but her cannon remains powered as she steps further into her apartment. Apparently her paranoia of being jumped in dark places got the best of her again.

"Firefly," an amused voice says directly behind her.

The small doorwinged femme yelps and leaps over the love seat sitting in the middle of the room, at the same time she spins, aiming her cannon at whoever is behind her.

"Wait, no! Easy," the mech urges with his legs braced apart, both servos held up in a sign of nonviolence in an attempt to calm her down, "femme, easy."

"Barricade?" Firefly asks in recognition.

"Well, I'm glad you haven't forgotten me," the Decepticon says with a smile, sounding truly relieved.

The femme doesn't return it; instead she stares hard at the mech in disbelief. The last time she had seen him he had told her that he loved her and wanted her to be his sparkmate, but she had declined gently. Barricade had instantly guessed that the reason for her answer was because of his older brother and had left in a rage. It was true, she had loved Prowl for quite some time at that point, but was far too scared to tell the emotionless mech her feelings. Barricade left and joined the Decepticons, the opposite side that his brother was thinking of joining, out of spite and deliberately broke their sibling bond nearly offlining Prowl. She would never, ever forgive him for that.

Barricade's distractingly red optics flit down toward the bundle in her arms, just noticing the sparkling. His small smile fades slowly and his gaze narrows, morphing into a scowl. Firefly tightens her grip possessively around her sparkling and sends the mech a threatening glare as the Con's faceplates twist with malice.

Firefly finds herself suddenly wondering how Barricade and Prowl, such different mechs, could be sparked from the same creators. How could she have thought for one nano-klik_(1 earth second)_ that she had feelings for this awful mech in front of her? Her thoughts are cut short by the dark colored mech's words.

"Is he…?" Barricade's irritated question trails off as he glares down at the sparkling in her arms as if the young mechlet were an abomination. Her creation stares back with wide, innocent optics.

The black and scarlet femme loses patience for the mech, "What do you want Barricade?" she snaps with her blue optics narrowing, ignoring his question. Yes, she knows what he's asking. He is trying to inquire if the sparkling is Prowl's. Such a simple question! She's sparkbonded to the mech, for Primus' sake! Of course he is Prowl's!

"The Decepticons are mobilizing."

Firefly's gaze sharpens, "So?"

"They're coming here." All the air leaves her chassis and Barricade's words barely register as she stares uncomprehendingly at him. "The orders are no survivors, when they're done razing this place there's going to be nothing left." Barricade's red optics shine with worry for her as he tries to feign indifference as a Decepticon should. No doubt his worry is only for her, Firefly thinks as she tightens her grip on her son once more.

A rising panic begins to grip the femme's spark. The Decepticons are going to attack Prauxs? Why? There are Autobot troops stationed here who will fight them off! There is no way that Megatron would risk loosing so many of his mechs in an attack against such a well fortified city!

Big doe tears form in her sparkling's optics as he senses his Carrier's fear through their new carrier-creation bond. He clings to her chest armor, his little frame quivering with fright.

"No, Firefly, I know what you're thinking, Megatron and Galvatron have combined their forces. No one is getting out of here online," Barricade says harshly with his vocals raising in pitch as he sees that he isn't getting through to her. Firefly shakes her helm forcefully even as his optics turn desperate, "Please leave!" Barricade practically begs her with his vocals grating in annoyance for her difficulty and his own growing fear for her safty. "Don't you want your son to live?" How unfair of him to bring her sparkling into this! "To meet his father?" Of course she did! Firefly doesn't realize that she has voiced her last thought until Barricade growls forcefuly in a commanding tone as he shoves her toward the door, "Then take him and leave now!"

"But what about all the other bots," Firefly asks desperately, gesturing wildly with her free servo to indicate the whole city, "What about them?!" He doesn't answer and continues to propel her toward the apartment door. "I have warn them! Barricade!" she yells his designation angrily, jerking herself out of his hard grip, "did you not come to warn them too?" Barricade's ruby optics steel as he looks at her and Firefly lowers her gaze sadly in realization. He didn't care about anyone else but her. "I always thought there was a good mech hiding somewhere in your spark," the femme whispers with her chin plating quivering with unspoken emotion, "and that deep down you regret what you did, but now I see that I was wrong. It looks like you chose the right faction, Barricade." His designation feels bitter on her glossa and she whirls to exit the apartment.

She must warn the Autobot troops stationed in Praxus.

"Firefly," the sound of the Con calling her stops her movements. Her back struts stiffen and she waits for what he has to say. His next words tear at her spark, "When I return…I'll have my orders."

The femme quickly leaves her living quarters and closed the door solidly. The bang makes her sparkling jump and a small cry leaves his vocals. She gently holds her son against her spark to calm the him down as she formulates her course of action. She must act quickly to warn the troops of the impending danger. Firefly gently places the little yellow mechling in her carrying chamber within her chest plating, he will be safe here. The plating on femmes' chests is always stronger than any other part of their frame for the sole purpose of protecting sparklings in their carrying chamber. Also being next to the Carrier's spark always helps little ones to remain calm in a crisis.

The red and black femme vents deeply, forcing composure through her systems so she doesn't upset her creation snuggling against her spark. She jogs easily down the stairs toward the street and meets her neighbor, Buckshot, at the bottom of the stairs. She personally knows the young mech's family unit. Her spark hurts as his mouthplates open happily to greet her, but she doesn't give him the opportunity.

"Buckshot," Firefly says urgently, "take your family to the base immediately, the Decepticons are coming to the city! Please warn everyone you can along the way! I must go warn the troops!" She sprints away from the frightened mech leaving him there in his stupor and hopes that he will do as she told him to. As she races through the streets toward the military base of Praxus she yells a warning to everyone she passes. Praxus will not fall today! Not if she has anything to say about it!

Her sprint leaves her gasping for air as she nears the base. Relief floods her as she makes a beeline for the entrance.

"Femme, halt!" someone calls out just as she reaches the base's large east doors, she turns her petite helm to see five guards, and one has his rifle trained on her. "What is your business here?" the guard asks suspiciously as he and the other four approach the winded fembot.

"Please I must speak with your Commander," Firefly begs, "the Decepticons are coming!"

"That is incorrect, my dear," a gravelly voice sounds from the dark shadows of the base and Megatron emerges from them with an evil leer on his serrated mouth plating, "the Decepticons are here."

The guard's optics enlarge and he begins yelling orders to his comrades, "Subspace weapons!" the sound of the Autobots' sub-spacing weapons fills Firefly's audios, "partners!" the five guards split off into three teams with the leader being alone. "Femme, with me!" he yells to Firefly, she quickly joins him as they circle Megatron like cyber-wolves. The Decepticon leader smirks as he stands tall and unafraid in the middle of his enemies. Uneasiness pricks at Firefly as she stares at the Con's huge bulk. Why is he alone?

"Sigil," one of the younger guards calls to their leader, "why is the alarm not sounding?" The older 'bot looks curiously up toward the mounted security cameras on the base's walls.

"Soundwave took care of the cameras on this side of the base and don't bother with your comm links," Megatron answers the guard casually with a smirk marking his pleasure, "we will be in and out of your base before anyone sounds the alarm and then the city you safeguard will be eradicated with no mercy." He chuckles with an insane tint to his vocals as he clenches his large, clawed servos and glares at the guards to await their next move.

Their weapons hold steady on the warlord, but a look of trapped prey is entering their optics. They glance sparingly at Sigil, knowing that there will be no silent commands from their experienced leader's comm links. They are on their own, only able to try and stall the large Con until someone else spots them notices that something is amiss. Two of the guards exchange glances.

"Button, Crash, no!" Sigil yells to his comrades just before both of the younger Autobots lunge at the warlord. Megatron shoots both bots with his mounted cannon, felling them instantly with large gaping holes in their frames. Roars of outrage fly from the two's brothers-in-arms and a cry of shock escapes Firefly as squeezes her optics shut against the sight of the two youngsters sprawled on the ground with energon flowing freely from their wounds, the pair's optics dim slowly.

Firefly feels her sparkling shaking in her carrying chamber. She longs to get him out, to reassure him everything will be fine, and to cuddle him lovingly. She can't close her optics! She will get herself offlined like that! Her optics snap open as she hears the screams of the other guards. Her vision clears just in time to see an offlined Sigil sliding off of the warlord's huge sword with his gaze wide and expressionless. The deafening sound of metal sliding on metal sends a shudder through the femme's mainframe. The Decepticon's optics turn toward her and grin splits his features.

What can she do? Firefly's spark thwacks at her chassis madly and her vents are ragged with fear. She is not a warrior! She cannot fight Megatron! Then it dawns on her, Megatron had said Soundwave took care of the cameras on this side of the base. That means the others may still be functional!

"What are you going to do, femme?" Megatron asks gleefully, clearly thrilled with the situation he has currently found himself in. Firefly spins quickly on her heel struts and sprints away as fast as she can with her spark pounding in her audios. She hears Megatron cackle something about 'sporting femme' and she can her his thundering pedesteps take in after her. She feels her son shudder with fear. The poor sparkling, just born two cycles_ (days)_ ago and he has already known evil. The fembot rounds the base's south east corner at a mad dash with the warmonger close behind.

Megatron temporarily forgets himself in his need to catch the femme. No one bests him! He too, rounds the corner and the base's alarm blares through the city almost instantaneously. The warlord's optics widen and he skids to a stop with a curse spewing from his vocalizer! She tricked him! He clenches his large servos and bellows his indignation to Cybertron's sister moons. His vocal processor emits a vicious growl as he glares at the femme. This one he will offline slowly!

He steps toward her menacingly but is stopped by a horde of shots hitting his chest armor. Ducking around the corner of the base he sees a squad of Praxus' guardforce charging at him! Slag that femme!

As Firefly offers the large mech a victorious smile before she sprints away, Megatron angrily snarls into his comm lines, : Seekers and all aerial mechs mobilize... No one gets out! :

: Acknowledged, : Megatron's Second in Command, Nighthawk, responds immediately, : ETA in two kliks _(1 klik=1.2 earth min.)_. :

Firefly runs back towards the city streets. She did it, she warned Praxus! Now she has to get out of the city herself! She must get her son to safety! The sound of seeker engines makes her throat pipes choke with dread. The deafening rumble rips through the sky and the seekers and aerial Decepticons unleash Pit on the unsuspecting city of Praxus. Firefly runs blindly through the bombarded city, ducking stray missiles and flying debris. Her spark hammers in her chassis as she disappears down another alley, the accumulating wounds on her frame beginning to slow her.

She gasps as a Decepticon appears at the end of the long alley with a feral snarl on his lip plates and lunges at her. His servos grab at her waist and his evil leer brands permanently into her processor as she jerks free and tries to run. He reaches for her chest plates... her carrying chamber... her sparkling. Instinctively the femme raises her small plasma cannon and blasts the mech's helm off his shoulders at point blank range. Firefly feels indescribable astonishment and shame at her actions and she tries her best not to look at the deactivated frame of the Con as she sprints past him.

Now is not the time for sentiments, she must do these awful things to keep her son safe.

A purple and black femme sprints up the street toward her. The red in her optics and the hellish purple insignia on the black highlights on her shoulder tells Firefly that she is a Decepticon. The Con femme looks from the deactivated mech to Firefly then back again. A look of slight disbelief registers before the Con shakes it off and swings a battle ax at her with deactivation in her glittering optics. Firefly dodges easily to both femmes' surprise and shoots her opponent three times, aiming for the sensitive axels in the taller femme's legs and arms. One blast hits its intended target on the Con's leg and the purple and black femme crumples to the ground with a grunt of pain.

Firefly takes the small window of escape and sprints away from the Decepticon utterly amazed that she was actually such an accurate shot to hit a leg piston. Now all she has to do is stay hidden and slip out of the city.

"No!" a familiar cry comes from down the street, "Leave me alone!"

Firefly freezes in fear. Twinkle... the small fembot that befriended her when she first came to Praxus. No, not Twinkle! Without hesitation, the Firefly doubles back and heads for the sound of her friend's vocals, searching frantically for her pink and purple companion. She comes upon a large black mech that has Twinkle trapped between his large servo and a partially destroyed wall. The black and red, doorwinged femme leaps onto the offending mech with a savage snarl and with all the strength in her arms she rips at the unprotected wires on the back of his neck, tearing them out with her long, slender digits. The mech falls to the ground severely wounded, but not offlined. Firefly isn't sure if the pressure in her chassis is guilt or relief at this fact, for he is clearly suffering! No time for this now! The femme turns to her shaken friend and helps her to her pedes.

"Twinkle," she gasps, seizing the dazed femme by her shoulders, "get up and run!" she has to yell into Twinkle's faceplates to be heard over the explosions rocking her home. Twinkle stumbles a few steps ahead of Firefly before stopping dead in her tracks. She stares fearfully down the street and a small croak of fear seeps from her parted mouthplates. Firefly's energon runs cold in her systems as she sees what Twinkle does. A humongous mech barrels toward them, optics full of revenge and hate, serrated denta bared! Megatron! And his optics are settled on her! "Get out of here! Run!" Firefly screams at Twinkle!

Both femme's whirl away from the frightening sight! A large flame blossoms on Firefly's chest plates with a resonating boom sealing her fate! Sparks and energon shower around her as she falls into a heap on the ground. Everything goes mute as she crumbles. It doesn't hurt near as bad as she thought it would... getting shot... groggily she checks her sparkling and almost sobs in relief when she feels him squirm in her carrying chamber.

Twinkle turns around to see if Firefly is behind her and her spark nearly shatters when she sees the delicate fembot lying in a heap with a growing puddle of wet energon around her. The world in all its pointless chaos fades away and all the young, horrified femme can hear is her own spark pulsating in her audios.

"No!" a shuddering whisper escapes her before everything comes crashing back into a harsh reality, "Firefly!" Twinkle's anguished scream pierces clearly through all the noise of the carnage.

**Don't…you dare…come back!** Firefly grunts harshly over their strong friendship bond forged over the course of many vorns_ (1 vorn = 83 earth yrs)_. **Run!**

From the corner of the mortally wounded femme's vision she sees Twinkle spin rapidly on her heel and sprint away. Firefly vents in relief but she also feels immense failure touch her as she stares upward into the sky above. She failed to keep her son safe. Tears threaten to spill out of her optics as she feels him quaking in her carrying chamber. She tries to comfort him, but she is fading quickly and has very little time with him. Defeat stabs at her as she realizes she will never see him grow up, scratch his paint, make friends, get into fights as all mechlings do, follow in his father's pede steps,…fall in love. She is robed of her motherhood and now her sparkling will have to go on without her.

Will he even make it through this senseless battle? If he does, will he ever find his Creator?

Prowl, Firefly's chassis tightens with grief. Prowl will blame himself for this, for not being here to protect her. He will put on a strong front and pretend not to be in pain but it will tear him apart slowly. She can only hope he will be able to heal in time.

Firefly's awareness sharpens as she sees the tall purple and black femme that she was fighting earlier approaching her. The Decepticon fembot's cannons are smoking... she must be the one that shot her.

Firefly struggles to intake as her pulse begins to diminish and she uses the last remaining bit of energy in her frame to cloak her son's spark signal from the world. In her last offlining vents she sees a look of pure horror cross the tall Decepticon femme's faceplates before the world fades away, her last thoughts on Prowl.

* * *

The sparkling sniffles. He feels his Carrier's fear. Something is wrong! He hears loud, angry yelling followed by a piercing scream! He wishes everything that is scaring his creator would just go away! He feels tired and scared. He wishes he could get out of his mother's carrying chamber, because it is kind of small, but a loud burst sounds from nearby and sends his Carrier tumbling. He whimpers. No, he will just stay in here.

His mother's venting is haggard and it is no longer comforting next to her spark. The little mechling is scared. He wants to cry but something tells him that crying will not help, so he stays silent. He hears his femme creator cry out in pain as something slams into her chest. She falls.

The sparkling whimpers wishing she would get them out of this awful place. But this time his Carrier doesn't get up. Her spark pulses brightly beside him, silently sending comfort and love to the sparkling to blot out his terror. He smiles and cuddles closer to her spark. Everything will be ok.

His mother's spark pulses one last time before its signature fades out. The sparkling suddenly feels completely alone and abandoned. What happened?! He clicks questioningly and somewhat fearfully as he searches for his Carrier's presence. She is not here! She left him! No. She loves him because she told him so. She will come back and get him, he decides. He must wait for her.

He curls up in the carrying chamber and presses his tiny servos over his audio antennas to blot out the frightening noises until his carrier returns. Screaming, yelling, booms, groans, and crying resonate around him. A sharp pain jolts his chest and he whimpers against it. His legs draw closer to his main frame, snuggly pressed against his torso, trying to get rid of the misery and fear around him, but the pain in his chest only sharpens and silent tears begin rolling down his cheeksplates.

He wishes his Carrier would hurry up and come back to get him.

* * *

_A quick congrats to **Malware**__(guest) who figured out what sort of depressing turn this story was going to take. You have incredible (but pessimistic) foresight._

_I hope you all enjoy it... I was up until 3:00 a.m. silly me... __And if you know who Firefly and Prowl's little sparkling is... please don't kill me. :(_


	2. Chapter 1

_Hello again peoples! I don't know about everyone else but spring is right around the corner and I'm feeling it! I wish I could say that with it being spring that I could give you a happy, perky, and otherwise upbeat chapter... I am sorry, but alas I cannot. This will contain much feely stuff. Much sadness. Much angst that I do so hate to thrust upon my readers unaware, so you have been warned._

_So, onto the chapter #1 of In A Rising Darkness. And if someone new is here that feels lost, then do not fear, tis not on account of you being a nincompoop, only that there is a story before this one. Enjoy. :D_

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

Optimus Prime trudges through the ravaged city with a heavy spark. Why would Megatron do this? It makes no sense to him. These mere piles of ruble at the red and blue mech's pedes were once the homes of families, the bots that didn't want anything to do with the war. Neutrals. And it had been a total massacre. All that is here is bodies of mechs, femmes, and young sparklings alike, all slain in the mindless madness. Megatron crushed them and the Praxian army.

An anger rises in Optimus' core at his eldest sibling. Megatron is acting like he was spawned in the Pit by Unicron himself, as if he had never been taught the right from the wrong and the good from the evil. Optimus knows that he does... Megatron just doesn't care anymore.

Optimus' denta clench painfully with concealed anger as he stops by the frame of a small but beautiful red and black femme. The hole in her spark glares at him accusingly as the energon, still glowing and wet, flows out. Her small, used plasma canon, along with the few littered frames of offlined Decepticons, signified the young fembot didn't go down without a fight.

Prime can hear his team utter their disbelief at the sight of the huge amount of wreckage and the smoking debris that once was a proud city. They had come here answering the Praxian army's call for help, but they are far too late.

The call had been calm and collected as any soldier would have to be in such a situation. Optimus had assembled two battleships immediately in response with high hopes that they were not too late. The warriors are now standing in what is left, horrified.

Seven mechs stand near him, Ironhide, his weapon specialist, Ratchet, his Chief Medical Officer, Hound, the best tracker he has ever seen, his brother, Ultra Magnus, his Third in Command, Jazz, Head Tactician Prowl, and, Primus forbid, Prime in training, Hot Rod. Optimus avoids looking at his brothers as a feeling of shame creeps into his spark. As a Prime it is his duty to protect, and he is failing miserably.

"Search for any survivors!" he orders quickly to the battalions, hastily harnessing his anger into a search and rescue, "Hot Rod take two teams and guard the ships. Keep a sharp optic for any stray Cons that might have lagged." His younger brother nods before sprinting back to the battleships, the _Hulk_ and the _Vengeance_. Everyone is already too absorbed in searching for survivors that they didn't even notice that the usually rebellious, young mech had listened immediately.

The sound of unsteady pede falls catches Optimus' audios and glances at his H.T., Prowl, who's optics scan vigorously over the carnage in an almost frantic way. The signs of shock and severed bonds were evident on the young doorwinger's faceplates the instant that they had left Iacon, Ratchet almost forbad the Praxian to come when he'd nearly collapsed from pain. Prowl had then put on his mask. The Prowl mask that he never let anyone get behind once in place. He demanded that Ratchet allow him to come because he was needed as the Head Tactician. Ratchet agreed, abet very reluctantly, and had hovered in the background in case the black and white mech suddenly keeled over.

Prowl had been right, and as much as Optimus wishes that he would have stayed behind in Iacon, if only to spare him the agony of finding whomever he'd lost in the masses of offlined frames, he is glad that the Praxian insisted on coming. The Prime had just appointed Prowl his Head Tactician, a very smart move on his part, for Prime had never seen anyone analyze as quickly, skillfully, and accurately as Prowl did. Even so, it is hard to miss that this cycle_ (day)_ is going to tear the doorwinger to pieces.

"I am sorry, Prowl," Optimus says quietly as the younger mech blinks at the ruins of his home city.

Prowl doesn't answer and instead fixates his gaze on the deactivated femme Optimus had been silently mourning over. His optic ridge furrows almost uncomprehendingly and a jagged vent is pulled into his systems. He kneels cautiously beside her reaches for her small servo that is strewn away from her frame as if in her last moments she was trying to crawl to safety. Lifting it gently as if her greying servo might break if he mishandled it, he jerkily moves her closer, his vents becoming short and haggard. Even with his faceplates unmoving, even with his mouthplates not twitching once to betray his emotions, it is easy to see the sorrow clouding his electric blue optics, causing them to dim. Slowly the Praxian wraps his arms around the femme and pulls the her to his chest, burying his helm into her neckcables. The only sign of his private mourning is his hanging doorwings that shudder gently.

Optimus watches in utter shock as his usually emotionless tactician begins to tremble, evidence of a near break down. "Prowl," Optimus despises how unsure he sounds in his own audios, "do you require Ratchet?" The white helm shakes without thought and the Autobot leader motions for the other mechs to follow him elsewhere to leave Prowl alone for a moment.

Prowl manages to hold back his threatening tears by frowning deeply. He knew he would find her here among the offlined... gone... lifeless. He had felt their bond fade into nothing and had known instantly, seeing only made it a reality. One he could not escape, and that felt like his spark was being crushed from the inside out. He hasn't felt that much agony since his brother tried to extinguish his spark by deliberately breaking their sibling bond. With his frown tightening he presses his forehelm onto the cold faceplates of the femme's and squeezes his optics shut against the ache.

She is gone. No amount of mourning will bring her back. There are other to attend to, possible survivors to be rescued... but not her... not Firefly. Prowl slowly lays her back to the ground with his vents caught in his systems. He falls numbly back onto his skidplates, his wide, unblinking gaze never wavering from the greying femme. She no doubt took their unborn sparkling with her. His family…gone. Just like they never existed. But they did exist. He feels it with every pound of his tortured spark. His shoulders shake as they fall into a defeated and sorrowful slump, his optics dim and unmoving.

Optimus exchanges a worried glance with Ultra Magnus and Ratchet as they watch Prowl from a distance as they direct the search for survivors. Ratchet growls under his breath and runs a small scan over the tactician from a distance. The doorwinger doesn't indicate in the slightest if he felt the scan run up and down his seated frame. Optimus hears the medic muttering something about 'dumb aft', 'shove my wrench so far up his tailpipe' and 'sorry son of a glitch with no processor'.

The black and white doorwinger is clearly suffering from a broken bond, one that could offline him if not put on a spark stabilizer and properly monitored, and it is driving the C.M.O. nearly insane with worry as he watches from a distance. That stubborn mech had practically yelled at the Ratchet, telling him he was going with the ships whether Ratchet approved or not, and had firmly planted himself in the _Vengeance_ with his doorwings splayed tensely outward with hostility. The only reason the medic gave in was because he had never seen Prowl that way before.

"Ratchet," Flatline, one of the medic twins, yells loudly to gain the C.M.O.'s attention, "we found one online, but we can't get him stablized!"

Ratchet glances back towards Prowl then to Optimus with his mouthplates opening, but before he can say anything the Prime speaks, "We will keep an optic on Prowl, do not worry."

The C.M.O. nods at the Prime with his expression grateful and jogs after his apprentice. Ultra Magnus turns immediately back to his searching, but Optimus sends a worried glance in Prowl's direction. He has been sitting in the same place for almost a breem_ (8.3 earth min.)_ now. Optimus begins to help Ultra Magnus while inconspicuously keeping his blue optics trained on the tactician.

Prowl slowly pushes to his pedes and almost staggers back to the ground, his gaze never leaving the offlined femme. Optimus almost comms Ratchet but refrains when Prowl steadily turns and begins searching the wreckage with the others with a permanent grimace etched on his faceplates. Optimus wonders briefly if it would be better to command his friend to go back to base but immediately banishes the thought. It would be wasted words. Prowl would listen because it was a command, but would probably resent Optimus for pulling rank at a time like this. Instead he opts for keeping a watchful optic on the mech that barely strayed for more than a klik_ (1.2 earth min.)_.

Joors_ (1 joor= 6.5 earth hrs.)_ pass slowly as the Autobots continue to search, seemingly in vain.

Ultra Magnus' frustration shows as he heaves a piece of metal to the side with a hiss to Optimus "Who could have survived this?"

_Only one so far, _Optimus refrains from voicing the pessimistic words to his already irate brother and only nods his cranial unit in agreement and regret. Regret of not being here in time to ensure the safety of the now offlined Praxians, of not being able to confirm the survival of the doorwing race. As far as they know there is only a handful of doorwingers online.

"Optimus, you know we came as soon as we could. There is nothing else that you could have done." Ultra Magnus says with his vocals softer, trying to ease the guilt he spots in his younger brother's optics. When Optimus doesn't answer the older brother continues, "I know how you feel, pit, we all do. But you have got to realize that..." his voice stops softly and Optimus looks at him curiously. His brother's gaze is penetrating beyond his shoulder strut and Ultra Magnus says roughly and aloud into the comm lines, : We found another one. :

Optimus whirls and spots what Ultra Magnus did. A femme walking slowly through the ravaged crystal gardens, stumbling slightly as she stares about her in horrified awe. She holds her left arm strut tightly from a small leaking wound as tear fall freely from her optics. The trainee medics, Jolt and First Aid, who were the closest medics on scene, approach her cautiously to assure the slightly baffled fembot that they were no threat before they quickly run field scans of her mainframe to ensure she has no spark threatening injuries. The femme sits quietly for the young medics with her huge, sorrowful optics looking over what was left of Praxus. Optimus can tell the femme is a noble by her flamboyant color scheme of pink and purple, her armor is flashy and well cared for, just covered with dust and a few scratches.

Suddenly the femme's optics widen, the panic causes her neutral yellow optics to blaze white and she leaps off her seat shouting, "Firefly! Is she alright?! Where is she?! Please, p-please, tell me you found her!" she begs gripping onto First Aid's forearm with her expression wild.

The medic shakes his helm and tries to calm her, "I'm sorry, but you are the first fembot we found online."

The femme's frame sags and tears begin streaming down her faceplates angrily. Her optics search the piles and piles of frames around her scanning frantically for the femme, willing with all of her spark that her friend is still online. Her frame begins to shake uncontrollably as she tries to pull her arm from First Aid's grasp. "Let me go!" the femme suddenly screams at the young mech shoving against his chest with all her might. The apprentice medic stumbles back slightly but his heel strut hooks onto a pile of debris, landing him promptly onto his skidplating. Jolt quickly pulls a sedative from his sub-space and moves toward her. She spots it immediately. "Don't touch me! Get away! Just go away!" her terrified, shrill screeches echo eerily over the ravaged city.

Ultra Magnus quickly makes his way over to the scene as the femme lashes out at Jolt and manages to slap him fiercely enough to dent the young medic's faceplates. The large mech draws near enough to catch the panicked fembot and grasps her against his mainframe firmly. She wiggles frantically, desperate to be free from her captor, but the Ultra Magnus' steel grip does not loosen. Her struggling finally quells and she sags against Ultra Magnus' chest, her body wracking with silent sobs. She remains in the mech's embrace for nearly a klik_ (1.2 earth min.)_ when her frame stiffens and she pulls away from him her optics trained on something or someone not far away.

"Please let me go," she begs to the large bot who instantly complies to her calmer request. The fembot scrambles away from him, over the debris piles and stops beside the same femme who had caused Prowl's emotional breakdown. "Firefly, no," her vocal processor can only emit a broken whisper. She curls up next to the deactivated fembot and lays her helm on the now grey shoulder. The pink and purple bot gently strokes the offlined femme's light armor down the length of her limp appendage, silent tears still streaming down her faceplates.

The crunch of pedes on metal causes her to whirl with tear streaking her faceplate. Prowl has stationed himself several yards away looking impassively at the scene before him, taking note how distraught the young femme is at the offlining of Firefly.

"What is your designation?" Prowl asks his vocal processor as void of emotions as his face.

The femme sniffs slightly before answering, "Twinkle."

"How did you know her?"

The mech's vocals break slightly on the word 'her', but the femme doesn't notice it in her misery and answers his question, "She worked at a bakery near my parental units for a long while. I go there... I went there all the time. She befriended me when she noticed all the other femmes were being mean to me. She was my friend when everyone else despised me for my high status." The young fembot blinks rapidly as more tears begin to for in her watery optics, "We went for long walks in the gardens and she would tell me all about her life before she came here, how she used to reside in Iacon, about her sparkmate and how the next time he came she would introduce me to him..." her sentence trails off in a strangled keen and her vents hitch harshly as she fights for control. "She was waiting on him to name the-" Twinkle's vents clog in her throatpipes and she gasps in horror, "The sparkling! Oh, Primus, please no! NO!"

The femme falls back into hysterics as she grasps desperately to her friend. Prowl fights to keep the pain from shining in his optics as tears threaten once more, it is illogical to cry now. Crying will solve nothing. He pushes away his emotions and approaches the wailing femme carefully. "Femme," Prowl starts.

"Shhh!" she hisses suddenly holding up a small, slender servo in his faceplates. Prowl begins to comm Ratchet to come for the femme as Twinkle wildly looks over Firefly's cold husk with crazed fervor. Ratchet will be able to do something with her perhaps, after all, Ratchet was C.M.O. for a reason. But something stops him. Something stop him dead in his tracks and makes his spark still into slow pounding beat. It fills his audios, but he refuses to believe it.

"-Click-... -Beep, beep-"

Both bots stare the deactivated femme's frame as they realize the sounds are coming from inside of her.

"The sparkling!" Twinkle breathes. Without hesitation, Twinkle quickly snaps open Firefly's carrying chamber and stares down at the tiny yellow passenger. A small, sad laugh breaks through the pink and purple fembot's vocalizer followed by static as she takes a shuddering vent and begins sobbing. She reaches down and pulls the terrified mechling from his safe nest, taking care to hide his view of his offlined femme creator.

Prowl stares at the little mechling in disbelief with his intakes shallow. This is Firefly's son. He takes a step back in a vain attempt to escape the emotions the sparkling sends crashing into his spark. He needs to be removed. His emotions are compromised. He needs to be away, far away. He turns away from the femme and sparkling only to be stopped by a small whimper. Prowl's spark nearly stops and he risks a glance over his shoulder armor.

The huge, innocent optics are trained on _him_. The sparkling stretches his short arms toward Prowl, indicating he wants the tactician to hold him. Prowl freezes, his pistons suddenly unmoving in light of this development and draws back slightly as Twinkle approaches him. A panic grips his spark the closer the femme came. His emotions are very illogical; the sparkling needs comfort. Firefly's son needs him. Reining his emotional core back into submission, Prowl takes the young one from the noble fembot and holds him close to his chassis.

The mechling curls up beside Prowl's spark just as his young systems crash from the physical and emotional trauma he has received this cycle_ (day),_ forcing him into emergency recharge.

Nothing in Prowl's many vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ has prepared him for this; holding Firefly's sparkling while standing next to his own mate's offlined frame. The tactician's arms barely hold the tiny yellow mechling as he turns and heads away from Firefly. The sparkling needs medical attention. The sparkling needs Ratchet.

Twinkle follows close behind as Prowl searches the field for the C.M.O. No need, Ratchet finds them.

"Prowl, you really need to go back to—" the C.M.O.'s optics catch sight of yellow plating and his vents catch, "Primus…" Ratchet nears and stares hard at the yellow thing. It couldn't be. "A sparkling?"

The Head Tactician pulls the recharging mechling away from his chest armor and hands him to Ratchet without a word. Hurriedly the medic bot scans the sparkling.

"Is he wounded?" Prowl asks the medic, his optics not straying from the yellow mechling once.

Ratchet huffs, "He is suffering from a broken creator bond… I take it that the sparkling's only creator has been offlined?"

Prowl frowns deeply, "A femme." Silence fills the space after the few words and the H.T. watches every small twitch the tiny yellow bundle makes before speaking again, "His only creator?"

"Yes," Ratchet mutters as he scans deeper for internal injuries, "There is only one creator bond that was established thus far and only one broken. To the sparkling he only has one creator. Since the mech creator bond hasn't been founded my guess is that he's either offlined already or perhaps abandoned the femme."

Twinkle comes closer, "So he's going to be alright?"

"I believe so," Ratchet says as he examines the recharging sparkling's exterior plating and scanning across the mechlet again.

"He could be enlisted," Prowl states matter-of-factly.

The medbot furrows his optic ridge, "Who?"

"The mech creator."

"True," the medic nods and needlessly scans the mechling again, relief fills the C.M.O.'s faceplates when nothing shows up. Ratchet glances at Prowl, "But why would a mech creator wait so long to form a creator bond with his sparkling? He is almost already three cycles_ (days)_ old… normally creator bonds are established within one cycle_ (day)_." Ratchet shakes his helm and scans the mechling once more to be sure the little bot is fine.

"He might have not known he was born," Prowl replies logically. Ratchet stops scanning to look at the tactical bot strangely. Prowl's frown automatically eases and his look of impassiveness overtakes his faceplates. The doorwinger turns and glances over the carnage of the slaughtered, his optics searching. His vocals are rough when he speaks again, 'There could be more survivors out there. Twinkle, remain with one of the medics until you've been cleared."

Quietly he starts away from the C.M.O. A shuffling of armor makes him glance back briefly. The sparkling's optics online and he stares up into Ratchet's hardened faceplates. A whimper escapes from the mechling's new vocalizer and he whips his tiny helm about searching for something, his huge optics land on Prowl.

No… Prowl turns and begins walking only to be stopped by a tiny squeak that slightly resembles a cry. The tactician looks back and sees Ratchet gazing at him expectantly. Little servos strain out toward him once more and panic is etched on the sparkling's fine-featured faceplates. The frown returns to the H.T.'s lip plates and he is still for a moment.

"Just take him for now, Prowl. He obviously feels safest with you," Ratchet grumbles and holds the yellow runt toward him. This is probably the only way to get the stubborn Enforcer to hold still for a while, and Ratchet will make the most of it.

Hesitance flashes across Prowl's processor. Cautiously he takes the mechling once more and limply holds him.

"No, no, no, no," Ratchet growls, "Hold him tighter to your chassis, his plating is going to get rattled to the pit!" The medic grabs Prowl's arms and places them around the sparkling in a more secure manner. "There, hang onto him for now. At least until we can figure out what to do with him."

Prowl shifts uncomfortably as the sparkling whirs and clicks as he cuddles to the tactician's chest. The mechling lays his helm against Prowl's spark and vents deeply as he listens to the deep, steady thrum of life. Sniffing quietly, the mechlet pats the black and white mech's chest armor that he is laying against.

He is afraid. His mother hasn't returned yet. Why didn't she come? The mech's arms tighten slightly around the sparkling's frame and a wave of calm washes across the younger of the pair. This mech has doorwings like his Carrier, so he must be nice too. This mech is strong and will keep him safe until his Carrier comes for him. She will come… This mech will keep him safe…

The optics fade and shutter as the sparkling falls back into recharge and Prowl quickly looks for Ratchet as the mechling's helm sags against him once more. To the tactical bot's irritation the C.M.O. is already halfway across the former battlefield with Twinkle. He probably is taking her back to the Autobot battleships where they have the other injured mech. Carefully Prowl peeks down at the young bot in his arms, the sparkling's mouthplates hang open as he recharges and he subconsciously continues to pat the H.T.'s chest armor.

Those faceplates. Prowl's spark twist painfully as he stares.

He can see Firefly's inquisitiveness and brightness in the sparkling's features. This is Firefly's sparkling; this is the only part of her he has left. Prowl intakes painfully as his spark's aching flares up once more, a rare wince touches his lips. He failed his sparkmate. He should have been here to protect her and keep her from harm, but he wasn't.

Prowl finds himself wishing for a nano-klik_ (second)_ that he would have left with her that time so long ago when she asked him to abandon the Autobots, maybe then this wouldn't have happened. Quickly that thought is slaughtered in his processor and he pulls his blue optics from the mechling. This sparkling needs more emotional stability than Prowl can give him. The tactician shivers involuntarily and glances about himself for an escape from his predicament.

Relief fills him when he spots Ironhide and Jazz. Hastily he makes his way through the wreckage and debris. The sparkling whirs and snuggles closer to the H.T.'s spark making the tactician panic slightly. Get him away! The panic builds into outright terror as he paces rapidly toward the two mechs. If he keeps the mechling he will fail him like he did Firefly. That cannot happen.

Jazz sees Prowl walking franticly toward them and stops with a word to Ironhide, the bigger mech pauses also and waits on the tactician to reach them. Neither know what to say to the mech when he nears. What could they say? His home has been leveled. His old friends slaughtered like drones in the streets.

Prowl stops abruptly in front of the two mechs and shoves the sparkling swiftly but uncertainly into Ironhide's servos, he struggles to keep his faceplates void of emotion. "Here," he manages. His own vocals sound foreign to his audios. Emotionless. Dead. Dead like her.

Witless as to what is transpiring and much to Prowl's relief, Ironhide takes the yellow sparkling and stares at Prowl.

The tactician quickly makes his getaway while the two stand there in stupor. There, Ironhide is much more suited to protect the sparkling than he is. Yes, Ironhide will take care of him.

Ironhide stands and watches the offbeat Praxian scurry away after thrusting a little yellow something into his servos. The big black mech glances at Jazz, who in turn just stares at Prowl's retreating form.

"Well," Jazz says with a snort as he stares after his friend, "that wasn't odd at all."

"No slag," Ironhide mutters and looks down wondering what Prowl could have possibly given him.

A sparkling?!

The Weapon Specialist's stares dumbfound at the little bot in his arms. He exchanges a look of pure shock with Jazz as the recharging mechling gives a tiny click. They found the tiny, yellow baby 'bot online…in this!? Ironhide glances around the remains of the proud city, the wreckage of a horrible holocaust in which they only found three survivors yet. One being this new born mechling?! Ironhide feels a glitch coming on ant the sheer improbability of the situation as he walks in a daze toward Optimus. Did he know about the sparkling yet? What will they do with him?

"Optimus," the black mech calls to his leader. The Prime and Ultra Magnus turn toward him tiredly with worn, tired optics. Both mechs' gazes fall to the sparkling in the black mech's arms, their orbs intensify in brightness as they take in the sight of the young survivor.

Optimus is the first to speak after a long while of staring at the recharging sparkling, "Is he functional?"

"We don't know," Jazz pipes in, "Prowl just handed him over then took off."

: Ratchet, : Optimus comms the medbot, : have you examined the yellow mechling? :

: Yes, : Ratchet replies immediately, : Why? Has there been complications? : The medic's vocals ring with worry.

: No, do not worry, old friend, : Optimus reassures him swiftly, : he seems fine. :

: Optimus, : Ratchet says after a time of silence, : I am needed in the Med Bay at once, Code and Line have attempted an energon transfusion with the mech and there has been difficulties. I will leave Jolt and First Aid here. : There is a pause before the medic adds : And I am dragging Prowl's sorry carcass back with me whether her want to come or not, he is not stable enough to be out here, : the C.M.O.'s tone is harsh.

: I understand, : Optimus says before ending the link and turning back to his followers, "Keep searching. If there are three, there is hope."

* * *

_I know... I ended it in a very corny way. But hey, its kind of happy. Like a light at the end of the dark tunnel. (I will not reveal if that light is a train or not. You will have to wait in agony. Mwhahaha)_

_Let me know what you think. I love to hear from the fellow readers of FF. Constructive criticism is welcome, but flames will be used tO FIREBEND MY ENEMIES INTO NOTHING BUT A MEASLEY HEAP OF TWICE INCINERATED AND FINELY CRUSHED ASH!_


	3. Chapter 2

_Okay, first off, I'm not even going to say sorry. I had everything ready to update on Friday and then suddenly Fanfiction decided that it should do drugs... or something. Is anyone else having problems? I will describe my little episode. So the place that I usually copy and paste from my wordpad usually is the length of my screen, I went on there and it had transformed into a tiny box about the height of a finger and the length of a toe. I thought, okay, I'm cool with this. I can roll with this. Wrong. I pasted and saved, Voila! All my paragraphs are smushed together. That happened twice. But that is nothing compared to this times happening. This time I hit the save button and half of every paragraph was missing and no matter how many times I deleted it and redid it, it wouldn't upload right... Fanfiction... get your ducks in a row. I can't deal with your junk._

_Sincerely,_

_**Komanah24**_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

* * *

"What are we going to do with him?" Ultra Magnus asks with his gaze, filled with pity and wonder, not leaving the sparkling in Ironhide's servos. The four mechs present remain silent, unsure of what to say or if they should even try to reach a decision without the rest of the Prime's council.

"I think we should keep him!" a mech pipes up from behind them. They all turn as one to the one who had spoken and see a tall, tri-colored mech appraoching.

"Hot Rod," Optimus warns the young mech as he comes to a stop in front of the powerful Prime, "I told you to guard the ships."

"And I've got two teams guarding them both right now, so why don't you relax?" Hot Rod suggests as he allows his stark, blue gaze to travel over the ruin of Praxus. His optics whiten fractionally and narrow in a sign of the young mech's anger at the Decepticons.

"Why do you think we should keep this sparkling at the base?" Ultra Magnus asks with his own optics hard as he questions his youngest brother.

Hot Rod cocks an optic ridge at Ultra Magnus and smiles disarmingly, "I think the question is, 'why shouldn't we keep the sparkling at the base?'"

Ultra Magnus frowns, "Lots of large bots can squish him, he could get lost, or worse. He would not be happy, because everyone that would care for him are warriors... not caretakers. Besides that, we have no idea how to raise a sparkling."

"You, Optimus, and Dad did it," the tri-colored mech points out.

"Yes, and maybe that is the reason you are the way you are," Ultra Magnus responds in total seriousness. Hot Rod snorts in disagreement as Ultra Magnus continues, "We should take him to a youth sector."

"Yeah!" Hot Rod says with a false smile, "Because he will be _so_ happy at an orphanage! Filled with lots of different, unfamiliar, too-happy, fembot caretakers. He will get to be bullied by all the other older younglings," the young mech gestures with his servos to convey his point, "Then he'll get to live every youngling's dream of never having any true friends, or knowing who his creators were. He'll be able to grow up bitter, with hatred boiling in his energon," Hot Rod clenches his fist and shakes it wildly in a dramatic display of anger, "then he'll enlist with the Decepticon cause, and eventually be offlined by Ultra Magnus." Hot Rod ends his narration with a defeated slump of his shoulder struts.

"Go back to your post," Ultra Magnus says with irritation showing for his brother's antics.

"Is that Magnus, my brother speaking, or is it _Ultra_ Magnus, my commander?" Hot Rod asks with a mocking inflection.

"Both," Ultra Magnus replies evenly.

Hot Rod narrows his gaze at the light blue mech and a scowl pulls at his lip-plates. He salutes in rigidly with his helm wagging in half mockery before he turns and saunters back toward the ships.

Ultra Magnus internally fumes as he turns back to the other three bots standing around him, "Any other thoughts on the matter?"

"I don't think he's wrong about the youth sectors," Jazz says quickly as he watches Hot Rod sulk back to the two battleships.

"He's going to turn out a spoiled, little glitch if he stays at the base," Ironhide mutters with a scowl at Jazz, "He should go to a place where bots can properly care for him, not where he will get the most attention."

Optimus nods thoughtfully, "You are right, Ironhide, we will look about placing the mechling in a youth sector after Ratchet has cleared his safely out of danger from his broken Carrier bond. Until then you will watch over him." Ironhide frowns deeply at the order but says nothing as Prime continues, "Take him back to Iacon, he does not need to see this carnage anymore."

Ironhide nods without showing his distaste for being saddled with sparkling duty and immediately comms Piston, the tactical Second in Command, for a ground bridge back to Iacon. It would be better to bridge back to Iacon through the Tactical Office groundbridge rather than the regular Communications Office hanger bridge simply for the reason that the Tactical Office will be far less crowded by bots awaiting any news from the troops working at Praxus.

Just as the glowing blue orb appears in front of the large mech, the sparkling's big round optics flutter open and online. He whirrs in confusion as he looks at the large, black chest his helm was resting on. He looks up at Ironhide's faceplates and his huge optics round in horror. Ironhide's spark clenches painfully at the little sparkling's terror. It is clear the poor mechlet had been expecting to see someone else as his optics frantically scan the surrounding area and a tiny, mournful whimper escapes him. The sparkling doesn't find the one he is so desperately searching for and sags against Ironhide's chest once more with big doe tears running down his cheek plates, sobbing softly in utter defeat.

Ironhide decides it wise not to try to comfort the little bot with words at this moment, and, instead, holds him more protectively against his chest armor, hoping the close proximity to his strongly pulsing spark will do the trick. It does. The sobs soften into sniffles as the mechling listens to the steady beat under the warm armor of his holder. His chin plating still shakes as he stares down at nothing, but he is calm.

As the weapons specialist exits the ground bridge he protectively covers the yellow sparkling with his large servo to shield him from the penetrating gawkers that would probably send the mechlet into throes of keening again. The runt has had enough to deal with, he doesn't need scary gawkers too.

"What is the rescue count?" Piston asks evenly as Ironhide emerges from the bridge.

"Three."

Piston's optics constrict with a concealed anguish and he hastily turns back to the computer to shut down the ground bridge with his jaw hinge clenched painfully. His armor is flared angrily and is quivering with emotion at the sudden loss he feels. Among the deactivated masses of Praxians are some of the tactician's closest friends, mechs and femmes he trained with... that were his friends.

"Any offlined Cons?" Piston asks with his vocals raw and his back still toward Ironhide.

The black mech allows a rare satisfied smile grace his features, "Yeah, quit a few."

Piston gives a half laugh with no humor. It sounded more like a choked back sob to Ironhide, but who was he to judge? The tactician glances back at the weapons specialist and gives a short, pleased nod with his mouthplates pressed into a thin line, glad to be reassured his friends didn't go down without dragging some Cons down with them. In a way it is its own little form of morbid comfort.

Ironhide leaves Piston to his duties and exits the Tactical Office with his servos still firmly covering the sparkling. The sniffling seems to have stopped. He risks a peek at the mechling only to nearly run over a certain pink, femme Commander.

"Ironhide!" Elita greets him, clearly surprised at nearly being overrun by the larger bot.

Ironhide clamps his servos back together over the sparkling before answering, "Sorry about that, Lita." His frame heats slightly when he spots Elita1's beautiful, light blue sister standing beside her with her optic ridge raised in an unimpressed way at his shortening of Elita's designation. Chromia doesn't like him very much, she never did, and her dislike for him seems to only have grown since she and her sisters moved back to Iacon. Her optics scrutinize him carefully and his spark pulse speeds up at her inspection. He scowls. His 'spark condition' seems to have worsened since her return.

"Is Optimus back?" Elita asks with concern, completely oblivious to Ironhide and Chromia's current glaring contest. She doesn't seem to mind that he called her Lita, why would Chromia? Femmes... so slagging confusing.

"No, he and the others are still in Praxus," the weapon specialist replies not taking his optics off of Chromia.

"Why are you back then?" The blue femme challenges.

Ironhide's gaze narrows at her, "Optimus sent me."

"Why?" She persists.

Irritation flushes through his systems and he opens his mouthplates to smart her off, but before he can snap at Chromia, Elita speaks up, "I will go help prepare another ship of warriors to search through the lunar cycle_ (night)_." She doesn't seem to notice that she is speaking to no one in particular as Ironhide and Chromia continue to glare at one another.

"Sounds wise, Lita," Ironhide finally replies with a curt nod, "if you'll excuse me though..." he passes the two sisters, not sparing even a glance at Chromia, knowing that she is quite peeved with him now. For some reason this knowledge pleases him greatly.

He is barely four yards down the hall when he hears her call out to him, "Hey, mech, wait for me." He stops in the hall with his back struts rigid as he listens to her say goodbye to Elita. She comes trotting down the hall after him, her heelstruts clicking with every step and, annoyingly, causing his spark to jump with every pede-step. His vents hitch as she comes next to him and he fights the urge to transform and go tearing down the hall like Unicron is venting on his neckplates. "Walk me to the rec. room?" Her request is more of a demand. Ironhide scowls and gives her what he hopes is an annoyed look. She doesn't seem to notice his displeasure so he drops it and gesture toward the hall in a command to start walking.

Their walk is silent, not that Ironhide minds in the least. He fixates his optic in the distance and ignores the fembot beside him with surprising ease until she speaks up again, "How many survivors were found?"

"Three so far," Ironhide supplies and he glances at her to see how she handled depressing news.

"Fragging Cons. I'd love to shove my cannons up their exhaust port," Chromia growls lowly. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. Ironhide crushes the urge to grin at her words. It seems like he has to do that a lot around her. Truly, he has never seen a fembot as rough as Chromia, and he has a theory that she could keep up with Ratchet if she put her processor to it. She just gives him the irritating impulse to smile... all the fragging time.

Glancing at the femme, he sees her optics is trained on the hallway they are walking so the mech takes the opportunity to scan over her faceplates. His gaze travels over her beautiful, strong features and pauses at her glaring gaze. Her sharp blue optics turn to meet his and he holds her stare for a few nano-kliks_ (seconds)_ before he casually looks forward again. His calm recovery after being caught staring is impressively collected considering that when her optics met his, his spark nearly ruptured from panic.

Ironhide hopes that she can't hear his spark pulsing and decides that it would be wise to speak aloud to cover any possible noises that might actually be audible from its furious hammering in his chassis, "Is there any particular reason you wanted me to walk with you, or is this just a social visit?"

"I have been here for a while now," Ironhide feels a strange disappointment at her words, "and I am ready to be put back on active duty," she states assertively.

Ironhide raises his optic ridge at her, "Have you gone to Ratchet for a physical?"

The femme cringes at his question, "No, but I had one a few stellar cycles_ (1 stellar cycle=1 earth yr.)_ ago in Tyger Pax. If I could get Ratchet proof of that, do you think I would still have to get a physical?" She asks so hopefully that he black mech again has to fight the urge to smile. She was just so...

He cuts off his processing before he can finish his thought and scowls instead, he practically growls an answer at her, "Yes, you still have to get one." Her hopeful look vanishes and she glares back at him as he says, "Sorry femme, its protocol. You're on your own." Ironhide turns and continues down the hall leaving a fuming femme behind him. He can her grunt in irritation as she storms into the rec room and he again almost smiles at the mental image of her faceplates angry and heated. She will hate him for a while and will avoid him for some time until she cools down, which is fine by him. The less he sees of her the better.

* * *

Later that lunar cycle _(night) _Ironhide carries the yellow sparkling into his chambers. He begins to lay the little mechlet down on the tiny berth Ratchet had insisted that Ironhide take into his quarter for the sparkling, but finds the young one's optics wide open and staring. A barely restrained groan tickles at the weapons specialist's glossa as he peers at the sparkling's large and completely awake orbs. The mechling mews pathetically and his small optic ridge furrows into a harsh line as the larger bot looks down on the him.

"You'd better recharge," Ironhide mutters as he lays the sparkling down on the small berth without a second thought on the matter. As the black mech turns to his own berth he hears the sparkling sit up and start fussing. He turns back to him with a scowl and wonders what could be wrong with the frail thing now. The runt is holding his servos out and is crying worrisomely after him.

Ironhide frowns as he returns to the mechling's berthside and scans him to see if anything minor is amiss with him. He is astonished to find that the young thing's energy levels are dropped below the fifty percentile. Sparklings this young should be kept _above_ fifty _at least_. He probably hasn't been refueled since they found him in Praxus. Too long.

Ironhide plucks him off the berth and trudges to the rec room tiredly, unmentionably glad it is so late in the lunar cycle_ (night)_ so no one will be there. He isn't in the mood to deal with anyone anymore. The sparkling is enough.

The rec room consists of a long bar running off the left wall with fourteen bar stools. Many regular tables are sitting around the large room in no specific pattern, the femme bartender is busy wiping them off with a polishing rag, and there are five large steel couches lining the right wall. Behind the bar is three large energon tanks filled with high grade, medium grade, and low grade energon. All three tanks have large round tubes extending out of the top that disappear into the wall behind them into the energon storage room, keeping all the tanks full. Beside the energon vats there are little containers of delicacies to add to the energon to play with the taste such as rust flakes, mercury drops, and oil. Behind the bar along the wall there is the kitchen of the bartender where oil cakes, rust sticks, energon goodies, and many other treats are made. Ironhide himself always thought it odd to indulge in the sweets when plain energon would suffice for every need.

The black mech slides onto one of the barstools with his optics narrowed in forced concentration. He shifts the mechling in his arms as he wonders exactly what sparklings like to eat, maybe low grade? The femme bartender comes around the counter from cleaning off the tables and looks at Ironhide expectantly with her own optics unimpressed at their late arrival. Obviously she was hoping she was done working for this cycle_ (day)_.

"One low grade," Ironhide orders gruffly and hopes that it is right. He should have asked Ratchet about it before.

"Do you want something to dilute it?" the femme asks as she eyes the yellow mechlet with a trace of a knowing smile on her lip plates.

Ironhide nods, that would probably be best... she probably knew more about sparklings than he did... The femme brings the energon and pours it into a cube before them, then adds the dilatant with a faint smirk when the mechling sits up and giggles with excitement at the sight of the glowing fuel. She swiftly reaches under the counter, pulls out a titanium tip and latches it onto the side of the cube. With a friendly and encouraging smile, she pushes it towards the runt and he grabs at it with a peel of elated laughter.

The bartender watches with a pleased expression as the little twerp drains the cube viciously. Ironhide stares as the tiny thing chugs the cube's contents greedily, only pausing for a vent or two, before slurping the rest of the glowing fuel without so much as a blink of an optic. The contents where consumed. The little mechling grants Ironhide a satisfied, energon-covered smile then yawns widely.

Ironhide nods a quick thank you to the bartender and swipes the mechlet off the bartop before he can topple off. Swiftly he walks back to his chambers, the mechlet falling asleep on the way. Ironhide smiles, good, maybe the runt will be set for the rest of the lunar cycle_ (night)_. One could hope...

* * *

Ironhide slowly opens and onlines his optics early the next solar cycle_ (day)_. A groan escapes his lip plates as he checks his recharge levels. Not even up to sixty percent. Slag. At least he doesn't have to train a class this cycle too, with the whole mess at Praxus pretty near everything is at a stand still at Iacon until they get everything worked though and sorted out. Ironhide wonders briefly if anyone would miss him if he would just lay in his berth a little longer... since the runt is finally being quiet.

It felt like all he was doing throughout the lunar cycle_ (night)_ was get up, feed crying sparkling, clean up a lubricant mess, comfort scared sparkling, try to recharge, and repeat. The femme bartender thought it was cute how many time the pair of them had shown up. Frag her. Then when the mech thought all was taken care of and the mechlet was satisfied, he decided he wanted to sleep in Ironhide's berth. Ironhide wasn't fond of the idea, but the runt was persistent. Eventually Ironhide decided that he valued his recharge more than his personal space. Since then everything has been quiet. Blessedly quiet.

Ironhide frowns, he must get up. If no one else notices his absence, Prowl will. And Prowl will find him.

He reaches behind him to feel for the baby bot and feels... nothing... Nothing? Wha! Ironhide launches up and scans the room with a mumbled curse. The sparkling energy signal is nowhere in his chambers. How did he get out?!

The weapons specialist hastily unlocks his chamber doors and runs out of his quarters, instantly expanding his readers to pick up the mechling's signature. He picks up Prime's... Slag. And Prowl's... Of all the slagging bots.

"Ironhide, how is the sparkling this solar cycle _(day)_?" Optimus asks with a smile as he nears the black mech.

"I would tell you if I knew," Ironhide growls as he wonders again how in tarnation the runt managed to escape his chambers. Prowl gives him an odd and somewhat confused look so the weapons specialist has to admit grumpily, "I lost him."

Prowl's right optic twitches before he swiftly says, "I will alert the base communications and have them announce over the public comms to watch for the missing sparkling."

Optimus nods swiftly and replies, "Ironhide and I will continue to search for him," as Prowl saunters away Optimus turns to Ironhide, "I will check the recreation room."

"I'll search the training hangers, who knows how far he could have gotten," Ironhide says as Optimus turns and heads toward the refueling stations.

Ironhide whirls and saunters toward the training hangers with a curse for every step he takes. Trust this to happen. He is terrible with sparklings! As the weapons specialist walks he receives a private comm from Optimus, he answers it gruffly, : Yeah Prime? :

: Do not worry, Ironhide, he will turn up somewhere, : the young Prime's baritone vocals tries to reassure his friend.

: I hope so, : Ironhide vents harshly as he nears the training hangers then cuts the link. A loud hoot of laughter catches his audios as he enters the first hanger and draws his optic to a pair of bots circling one another on a training mat. Hot Rod and Springer. Ironhide scoffs inwardly at the pair before he resumes his search of the hanger.

The two have been inseparable since sparklinghood; their friendship only growing stronger over the vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ as they matured into young mechs. It never surprised anyone that the two became friend in the first place. Sure, they were polar opposites to each other, but that fact didn't faze the two at all. They both played their own roles as buddies.

Springer was the noble, brave bot, always saving everyone (mainly Hot Rod) from situations they got themselves into, always feeling an extreme responsibility for everyone around him. Ironhide always had a hunch that this characteristic might be linked to the run in the young mech had with Megatron when the whole kidnapping fiasco went down. Springer is aso the more levelheaded of the two young mechs, thus Ironhide's preferred one to work with. His is almost too optimistic for the weapons specialist's taste though. He's not an overly short bot, only a helm shorter than Hot Rod even though he is older by a vorn (83 earth years), and is still being trained in Ironhide's advanced classes. Admittedly, he is one of Ironhide's favorite students because of his unique ability to have two alternate modes without slowing his system. In Ironhide's opinion, Springer, designated for the tremendous leaping power in his leg struts, will make a perfect leader some cycle_ (day)_.

And then there is Hot Rod. Ironhide scowls as his processor conjures up all the woes he has been subjected to thanks to that little fragger. He's a charmer, the femmes love him and practically fall over themselves to get his attentions. His brash and brutal fighting style always rubbed Ironhide the wrong way, but as hard as it was, and still is, to admit, he is a wonderful fighter. His superb abilities earned him an early graduation from Ironhide's training. It might have also been that the black mech was just tired of putting up with the younger bot's slag. The headstrong tendencies of the tri-colored mech made training him difficult and he still refuses to completely listen to the commands of his superiors. In short, one arrogant little fragger and, Primus help them all, a Prime in training.

Since he was graduated several orns_ (1 orn=1 week)_ ago the young mech has been put on active duty under Optimus, leaving Springer without a sparring partner. Springer had been mournful and complained of not having any challenges until Arcee had returned. Thank Primus she did. Springer had requested her as a sparring partner and she quickly proved that she could keep up with him. Ironhide permitted the pairing because it shut the green and white mech up. Since then, the two have grown considerably closer than she and Hot Rod.

Ironhide smirks at the thought, before he turns back to the job at servo. Finding the sparkling. Optimus might have found him by now since the mechlet should know the way to the rec room by spark since they traveled there a total of eight times throughout the lunar cycle _(night)_. He starts to comm Optimus when he notices something that he hadn't before. Ironhide's optics narrow suspiciously and he walks forward to check exactly what Hot Rod and Springer are doing on the training mat.

Springer is narrating a battle. Ironhide rolls his optics, Hot Rod is always capable of bringing out the inner stupid in every mech.

"The two powerful leaders circle each other in an epic battle of the ages! They know that this is the moment that will determine the outcome of the Great War! The best the Autobots have to offer against the one and only, horrendous Galvatron!" Springer exclaims with much emphasis. Hot Rod cackles evilly, obviously supposed to be playing the part of the huge warmonger. "This is it!" Springer shouts excitedly as he stops with his back toward Ironhide, "One battle to determine the final victor! One battle to free Cybertron or enslave it forever! One shall stand!"

"And one shall fall!" Hot Rod bellows in a loud projecting voice with a giant, slag-eating grin on his faceplates.

Ironhide snorts in annoyance and he turns to leave the two mechs to their sparklingish play, but as he is he catches sight of a tiny, yellow streak flying from Springer's servos and bouncing onto Hot Rod's chest. Ironhide's spark nearly stalls as he realizes exactly what, or more specifically whom, that little, yellow streak is. The sudden, crushing worry blossoms into a spitting rage as the sparkling miraculously latches onto Hot Rod's chest plates and the tri-colored mech tumbles to the ground on purpose with the squealing baby bot on top.

"Noooooo! You got meeee!" Hot Rod moans playfully, causing fits of laughter to erupt from the sparkling.

Ironhide's optics narrow as his fury builds. Those two no-good, fragging, wastes of space... he doesn't even finish his thought as he stalks toward the two mechs and the sparkling with a growl. He snatches the sparkling off Hot Rod's chest with a low snarl and the little mech chirps in surprise at the sudden movement. He blinks up at Ironhide as the black mech sets him softly on a nearby, empty weapons holding table. Ironhide pats the baby bot's helm carefully to assure him that he isn't in trouble before he turns.

"Slag..." Hot Rod whispers as Ironhide's optics meet his.

"I'll give you two glitch-helms an 'epic battle of the ages'!" he roars and charges at them. Springer lunges to the right, while Hot Rod flips over his ex-teacher.

: Prowl! : Springer yells franticly over the public comm. : We need assistance immediately in the Training Facility, hanger 1! Hurry! He's gone nuts! Gah! : he squalls as Ironhide grabs him by his back armor and tosses him through the air. He lands directly on Hot Rod, who was trying to make a sneaky escape.

The little yellow sparkling bounces up and down on his perch with excited bouts of laughter escaping from him at his playmates and claps at the show before him. He giggles as Ironhide grabs both of the two dazed troublemakers and knocks their helms together before letting them fall tot he ground at his pedes. Ironhide would be lying if he said he wasn't happy to whack the pair of them over the helm and that he enjoyed the fact that the sparkling thought it was funny.

"Ironhide!" Prowl's vocals cause the black mech to turn to see the tactician saunter in followed by Optimus, Sonic-blaster, Ratchet, and Jazz, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Just had to take care of a pest problem, they deserve far worse," Ironhide says unremorsfully as he retrieves the tiny sparkling.

The mechling's optics travel over the new comers then land on Prowl. He stretches his short stubby arms in the H.T.s direction with an inquiring beep and a happy grin. Ironhide wordlessly gives him to Prowl, who looks almost panicked for a nano-klik_ (second)_ before he frowns at Ironhide and begin lecturing him on the 'proper protocol', that he must be a good influence on the young optics present, brig time, and blah, blah, blah, blah.

"I think he likes you Prowler," Jazz says with a smirk after the sparkling lays his yellow helm on the Head Tactician's chassis and grins like he is holding the universe by the tail. Prowl's doorwings flare out slightly as the mechling giggles wildly against him, he doesn't seem to notice Jazz's use of his unwanted nickname.

"I see you found the sparkling, Ironhide," Optimus notes with a smile at the grinning mechling before he continues, "I looked into the possibility of turning him over to a youth sector yester-cycle_ (yesterday)_ and there is one not to far from here that I believe would take care of him well."

Ironhide's spark twists unexpectantly and he immediately grabs the mechling out of Prowl's servos and hand him to Ratchet.

"What!" Ratchet exclaims as he realizes that he is about to be saddled with the responsibility of taking the mechlet to the orphanage.

"Me and Prowl are busy," Ironhide explains and barely registers Prowl correcting his speech with a quiet mutter of 'Prowl and I'.

"Doing what?!" Ratchet snaps.

Ironhide shrugs and points at Prowl, "I've got brig time," he states matter-of-factly. With that he walks down the hall with Prowl at his heels who looks somewhat perplexed that he seems excited to go to the brig.

"Well, I've got to take care of those two gl-i-i-tter heaps," Ratchet says barely catching himself from swearing in front of the sparkling as he gestures to Hot Rod and Springer, who are picking themselves off the ground. The medic hands the sparkling to Sonic-blaster, who shakes his helm.

"Sorry, I'm heading back out to Praxus to help Ultra Magnus," the S.I.C. says.

"I have reports to write out," Jazz says with a smile of sympathy before hurrying after Sonic-blaster.

Optimus and Ratchet exchange a glance and the medic raises his optic ridge in silent question.

"I have a meeting with Alpha Trion and Vector Prime," Optimus says with an apology in his baritone vocals.

Ratchet almost lets an unbelieving squeak escape as he watches the Prime walk away, and he keeps the colorful words he wants to say in check, for the sparkling's sake. How did _he_ get the job of taking the mechling to the youth sector?! Ratchet didn't want to take him there in the first place! He wanted to keep him at the base so he would be well looked after! Not that he wouldn't be in an orphanage.

"I can take him Ratch!" Hot Rod pipes up as he pulls himself off the floor and flashes the C.M.O. a grin.

"Hot Rod," Ratchet cautions, "I need to check you for injuries first!"

Hot Rod shrugs, "Pfft! Injuries! It takes more than that to get me down." With that he snatches the little sparkling out of Ratchet's servos and marches toward the hanger door tossing the sparkling into the air as he does. The mechling's gasp of elation is heard clearly as he soars through the air and back into Hot Rod's servos "Come on, Bug!" Hot Rod laughs as he throws the mechlet again. This time the sparkling finds his vocals and shrieks with laughter as he tumbles back down into the tri-colored mech's grasp.

"Be careful with him!" Ratchet yells after their retreating forms.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Hot Rod says sending a scowl toward the medbot before setting the sparkling on his shoulder, the little sparkling wraps his tiny arms around the mech's neckwires and his little limbs don't even reach halfway around. "Hang on tight, Bug!" Hot Rod says playfully before sprinting down the halls toward the base exit.

Ratchet bellows after the mech, "Slow down! You're going to make him..." wait! Bug? Hot Rod is calling the sparkling Bug?! Ugh! That mech! If Ratchet had a wrench nearby he surely would have thrown it. Not that it would do any good, for Hot Rod is already far into the base halls and calling hellos to everyone he passes.

Hot Rod grins at the sound of the giggles by his helm and makes his way toward the dark blue frame of Arcee, who is walking quietly down the hall away from him, "Hey, Arcee," he greets her and she stops to face him with a small smile as a greeting. As he halts in front of her the sparkling leaps fearlessly from his shoulder with a squall. The mech catches the air born baby bot with an amused expression, but not before Arcee gasps in horror and almost flings herself to the ground to try to break the mechling's fall. She glares at Hot Rod with her servo over her spark when he laughs at her, "What's the matter?" Hot Rod asks teasingly and begins tossing the sparkling up with one servo repeatedly like a scrap ball to keep the little yellow squealer entertained. The mechlet gurgles with delight at the action.

Arcee only stares heatedly at the mech, standing rigidly in place, ready to intervene and catch the baby bot at a moment's notice. Hot Rod snorts at her lack of faith in his servo and optic coordination.

"This is my buddy," Hot Rod says with a grin to ease the fembot's tension.

"Yours?" she asks nodding her helm at the baby mech.

"Arcee!" Hot Rod exclaims in fake shock, "I'm horrified you would suggest I would have a sparkling outside of bondage!"

"Bondage, so that is your take on spark bonds?" Arcee asks laughing.

He smiles crookedly at the femme, "Yeah, we've got somewhere to be at the moment so..." he waves his goodbye and continues down the hall. Hot Rod vaguely hears Arcee yelling after him to be careful and rolls his optics at her worry. Femmes... The little sparkling suddenly begins whimpering pitifully and smacking Hot Rods arms repeatedly with his tiny servos.

What's wrong, Bug?" Hot Rod asks holding the little bot at arm's length optic level. A miserable look comes to the sparkling's faceplates and then...Ugh!

The Bug promptly purges all of his previously ingested energon from his tanks. On. Him. Hot Rod blinks stupidly. Okay, that he wasn't expecting. The gooey, bluish regurgitated liquid drips off of every available surface of the disgusted mech's faceplates and off the moaning sparkling's whole frontal frame. Hot Rod takes in the sparkling's ill expression and suddenly feels bad for causing him discomfort.

"Well, we can't take you to the youth sector like this, now can we?" the guilty mech says gently to the Bug, whose bottom lip plate has began quivering. He places the Bug back on his shoulder and walks calmly to the base's wash racks, leaving a barfed up energon trail behind him. As he turns the corner he sighs and realizes that he is never going to live this one down as Arcee catches sight of the vomit covered duo. She gives the sparkling a pitying look before shooting Hot Rod with a 'you got what you deserved' glare.

She will tell Springer of this, Hot Rod scowls, the two of them are like two scraplets in a pod, and Springer will laugh his helm off.

* * *

Nearly seven breems _(8.3 earth minutes)_ later the pair emerges from the wash racks squeaky clean, but slag, the sparkling had been hard to clean. His wriggling, combined with the difficulty of hanging onto the little Bug after getting him wet, running out after him every few nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ when the sparkling would break away and try to make a giggling escape in his protoform _(naked)_, had taken more than a little time.

Bug smacks Hot Rod's shoulder armor and whimpers to show his hunger.

Of course. Barfing equals empty tank.

"All right, we'll make a pit stop, Bug," Hot Rod says, feeling bad about making the sparkling sick all over again, "But right after you're refueled I'm taking you to the youth sector."

* * *

_This one turned out fairly long. I hope you liked it._

_Anyway, sorry about that rant on top. But since I don't know if this problem is going to become permanent I cannot promise that I will be able to update every Friday. I will try, but don't hold me to it. We'll see I guess._

_P.S. Thanks for all the reviews :) And just for fun, on your next review feel free to leave a joke (if you can think of one) because I am depressed about this whole FF fiasco and I love to laugh. ;D (You don't have to if you can't think of one. lol)_


	4. Chapter 3

_So FF still isn't acting 100%, but I think we reached an agreement. It doesn't delete half my work when I update and I won't find a way to ruin it. It took some severe negotiations. *Sigh* Anyway, this chapter is more of a filler. Please don't be disappointed. On the bright side it has a lot of Ironhide and Chromia... and it sets the stage for the action in the next chapter! YAY!_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

* * *

_Frag Ironfist. _A white hot rage spills through Chromia's wires as she storms in front of Prowl on her way to the brig. She has to keep her jaw hinge locked and her gaze glaring or else she would turn around and go stalking back to that fat fragger, Ironfist, and show him just how 'soft' she is. No one, _no one_, makes such degrading comments about her and gets away with it! Chromia's whole frame shivers with her ire as she lets her processor replay the mech's insults back at the rec room, _"Look who's back from Tyger Pax, all_ _soft!" _Her fists clench in fury as she wallows in her bad temper and lets more of the taunts seep through her memory files, _"Come 'ere Chromia, a femme like you will like what I've got to offer."_ A femme like her... A low snarl escapes her lip plates and Prowl puts a servo on her shoulder strut to keep her from charging back to the rec room and dealing with that stupid dolt.

In the end she did get the last word... in a way. After Ironfist had cooed and purred at her and offered her credits like some sort of common pleasure bot she'd hit him. Hard. Hard enough to set him on his better-than-thou-art aft with energon staining his olfactory sensor. To bad someone had seen Ironfist acting like the slag-wad he is and called Prowl in case there was trouble. Idibots, Chromia never needs backup against one measly mech that can't keep his mouthplates shut. They all must think that she's gone soft since she went to Tyger Pax. A growl forms at the base of her throat pipes at the thought.

Anyway, in accordance to the curse of everything that could possibly go wrong for her this cycle_ (day)_, Prowl walked in just as she delivered that, oh, so satisfying fist to the face. Apparently verbal harassing does not warrant brig time... apparently physical assault does. Hence, they both are walking in a tense silence toward the brig. Curse this cycle_ (day)_.

Chromia scowls at Prowl's annoying servo on her shoulder armor and tries to think of something snotty to say that won't get her in more trouble. Nothing comes to her processor so she settles for glaring every once in a while at the doorwinger. Frag him. Besides Ironfist had it coming for a while, no femme should be brigged for defending her own honor.

The image of the huge, lewd mech laying on the floor blubbering to Prowl about how she 'attacked' him 'unprovoked' is enough to satisfy her into silence for the moment, and if she is being completely truthful, she doesn't think that Prowl even slightly believed Ironfist. When he had cuffed her per protocol and marched her out of the rec room with her sneering at a pleased Ironfist he'd assured her quietly that he would 'slap Ironfist with anything he could find'.

Prowl's an alright mech when he's pissed about something.

The phrase the Praxian used is what humored Chromia the most and now the mental image of Prowl giving Ironfist a healthy whack is seared into her processor. Even now it makes her bad mood lighten and a smirk flit across her faceplates.

Elita will probably laugh too, Chromia smirks to herself. Her pink sister unit always held a high opinion of Prowl and a low one of Ironfist ever since the mech was recruited. Yes, Chromia will definitely be sharing the happenings of this cycle_ (day)_ with her. Even as these thoughts cross the light blue fembot's processor she sends visual and audio files of her Ironfist smack-down to Elita along with Prowl's entrance and his softly spoken promise as he led her out of the rec room.

Barely a klik_ (1.2 earth min.)_ later Elita pings her in a private comm. Chromia answers it with a grin as she continues walking down the hall with Prowl slightly behind her and to her right, : Hey, Elita. :

A boisterous laugh cuts through the link and Elita pants, : You have no idea how much I needed that! :

: Glad to be of service, sis, : Chromia replies before Prowl guides her down another hall toward the brig. : I've got to go, alright? I've got a sentence to carry out. :

: Don't get too comfortable. I doubt you'll be in there long. : Elita is still chuckling as she ends the link and the comm line goes silent.

Chromia shakes her helm as Prowl opens the door to the holding cells, Elita is nuts. She willingly bonded to a mech who's brother single handedly started the Great War and sparkling-napped his own little brother, Hot Rod, with the bright idea of offlining his whole family when they came to rescue him so the Original Seven Primes would have to choose him to be the next Prime. Chromia rolls her optics, mechs, they only thought about four things; femmes, fighting, power, and high grade.

Megatron did manage to extinguish the spark of his mech creator though. His brothers escaped, much to the fragger's dismay, and before Sentinel deactivated he revealed to Optimus that the Original Seven chose Hot Rod to be the next Prime. Chromia huffs at the thought and Prowl looks at her oddly as he guides her down the row of cells. She ignores the tactician and scowls at the mental image of Hot Rod that pops into her processor. Primus! If that little glitch costs the Autobots the war she will bend him over backwards and shove his helm up his tailpipe! Not that it isn't there already...

Prowl stops her with a grunt that makes her cock one optic ridge at him. As the Praxian opens her designated cell, she frowns. Prowl's been acting a little off this cycle_ (day)_. He's probably depressed about Praxus. He had friends there no doubt, perhaps even family.

As Chromia stalks into the small cell she turns and gives Prowl her typical glare as he locks the cell door behind her. He just soaks in her hard look with no expression on his faceplates and walks out of the brig without even giving the guard, one of the Wreckers, designated Bulkhead, a glance. Yep, something is definitely bothering the doorwinger.

Chromia peers through the brig's bars and looks the large, dark green Bulkhead from helm to pede. He has an enormous main frame and is easily one of the strongest bot's in the Autobot faction, which also accounts for his zero stealth abilities. His trademark weapon is two sub-spaced wrecking balls, which Chromia always secretly admired... what could she say? She likes tough mechs. Him being a Wrecker is a bonus point. The Wreckers take missions no one else will; the missions that send them to the Pit and back.

When Bulkhead fidgets under her narrowed gaze she smirks and turns away from him. The mech is nice, really soft-sparked, and she always found it hard to look mad at those kind of bots... even if they are on guard duty in the brig. Chromia flops back on the berth on her skidplate and sighs aloud, it seems she has turned into a regular in the brig. Speaking of regulars, she thinks as she glances into the cell across the hall from her.

The mech is sitting on his cell's berth, leaning against the wall with his left leg pulled up and his elbow strut propped up on his knee plating. She slowly looks him over as she did Bulkhead. Wide shoulders, big-built arms, large, proud chest, thick, gleaming, black armor, and the biggest aft cannons she had ever seen. She smirks, and possibly the most handsome faceplates too. Ironhide, everything a mech should be. Yes, she just thought that and she is not ashamed. What femme didn't?

Unlike Bulkhead, who's hulking frame was intended for construction work, this mech is built for war and destruction. His drive to offline 'Cons is somewhat inspiring at times, though his seeming lack of kindness could be intimidating. Chromia frowns and wonders if she's ever seen the mech show a sensitive side to indicate he even has a spark like a normal Cybertronian... Nope.

Ironhide's optics shift toward her and he meets her stare though the holding cell's bars. His piercing gaze sends a shiver up her backstruts, but she refuses to look away. She never shows awe or fear standing in front of any Con, so there is no way a cranky weapons specialist is going to stare her down. It helps boost her confidence when she remembers suddenly that he is completely love-struck with her. A scoff almost leaps from her vocalizer at the thought, just like any other mech. She shoots him a fake, sweet smile that always made the mechs at Tyger Pax fall to her pedes in a quaking puddle of adoring goo.

Ironhide gives her a highly unimpressed raise of his optic ridge before he leans his helm against the wall and goes back to ignoring her.

Chromia frowns deeply and sits up straighter. His assessment of her has gone down... why? She clears her vocals subtly and scowls when he doesn't look at her like a smitten mech would. She rises to her pedes and sighs a little then glances back at him quickly... he hasn't moved nor turned to look. He is ignoring her! No one ignores her! She scowls to emit some of the slighted anger piling up in her core. Sometimes the noble energon running through her wires can easily be spotted. She hates herself as she feels like thwarted, prissy fembot.

"So what are you in for?" she asks Ironhide as she forces calm into her systems.

The mech just gives her a 'leave-me-alone' grunt.

Chromia suppresses a huff. What else did she expect from him? It's Ironhide. When his designation is spoken in Decepticon ranks, all who hear tremble, even the two head fraggers themselves, Galvatron and Megatron, have respect for the mech. One does not get that way by being cuddly. In spite of this she decides to try again, if only to annoy him a little.

"So how long have you known Optimus?"

Ironhide opens his optics to look at her disapprovingly before he says with a bad tempered scowl, "That's Prime to you, and I've known him for a long time."

This causes a smile to play on Chromia's faceplates. Now why did her calling Optimus by his given designation bother him? "Hardly," she replies with a smirk, "he is my brother-in-law and a good friend. Besides you call my sister 'Lita'. What's the difference?"

"Optimus isn't your friend," Ironhide grunts as he regards her with an unreadable expression that quickly unnerves her, "you hardly know him."

Chromia frowns at his statement but decides not to push the matter and changes the subject abruptly, "Do you ever smile?"

Her question must have surprised him because the only word that comes from him lip plates is a confused, "What?"

"Have you ever seen him smile?" she asks again, but this time pointing the question at Bulkhead.

The green bot glances at the weapon specialist before shaking his helm. "No, I don't think I've ever…seen him…smile," Bulkhead answers uncertainly.

"What the pit kind of question is that, femme?" Ironhide growls gruffly.

"Why don't you?" she presses with a small smile on her own faceplates.

His optics narrow at her and he says finally, "I haven't seen anything worth smiling over in vorns _(1 vorn=83 earth years)_."

Chromia falls silent. He has a point; the war takes something out of a bot. She could feel the beginnings of his draining effects on her own life, causing her to scowl more often and to forget to laugh at the funny things. She is still better off than most in regards to the empty chasm that builds in the spark after so long of causing destruction. Hatred and the need to destroy seems to be consuming the happiness out of countless.

Ironhide is still watching her, waiting to hear her response. He probably feels a little exposed after telling her how he feels on the matter. Or maybe he just values her opinion. "Well," she says softly with her tone more gentle than she would have liked it to be, "maybe you're just not looking hard enough."

The mech's lip plates twitch involuntarily with a ghost smile.

"That's a start," she quips with a wide grin at him.

Ironhide's scowl whips firmly back into place and he glares at her for a moment for getting the better of him. Quickly he lays his helm back against the wall and completely ignores the femme once again.

"We're back to this?" Chromia asks with a smirk. He doesn't answer and she feels a sparkling-like urge to stick her glossa at him. Instead she plops back onto her berth again and counts the kliks_ (1 klik=1.2 earth min.)_ as they pass.

* * *

Only a few breems _(1 breem=8.3 earth min.)_ later Bulkhead walks over to the weapons specialist's cell. He taps a big round digit on the thick adamantium bars to get the mech's attention. "Time's up, Hide," Bulkhead calls to him.

Ironhide's optics slowly open and he nimbly hops off the berth. He flexes his arms and neck; he really should watch his temper so he doesn't have to spend so much time in this place. "Thanks, Bulk," he mutters as he walks out of the cell, "see you soon." His faceplates are completely serious but his voice holds a little humor as he says this. He sees the light, blue femme look up at him in fake astonishment from the corner of his optic. Frag.

"He jokes!" she says rudely with a sarcastic laugh.

Ironhide walks out of the brig and heads toward his quarters pretending to not hear her. Slag! Why could that femme get the exact reactions she wanted from him? He feels like a foolish, lovesick sparkling! Speaking of sparklings, he thinks, quickly changing the subject so he would quit thinking about that blasted femme. He wonders if the little yellow sparkling made it to the youth sector.

: Ratchet, where is the sparkling? : He asks the medic gruffly.

The medic answers immediately, : Hot Rod took him to the youth sector almost a joor _(6.5 earth hours)_ ago. :

Ironhide grunts in forced satisfaction as he ends their communication link without another word. Good, this means he will get a full lunar cycle_ (night)_ of recharge with no hungry sparklings with fight files keeping him up. Guilt nips at the big mech as his processor tries to push older memory files forward of his own, long ago experiences with youth sectors. The time that the youth sectors were not the best choice nags at him and he scowls. It is for the best, he tells himself, at least he won't have to worry about the little mechling being crushed by Hot Rod or Springer anymore... He will miss the little slagger's company though. Ironhide's frowns a little as he thinks how quiet it's going to be back at his own quarters without the yellow tyke. Too quiet. Oh well, what's done is done.

He reaches his private quarters and begins punching in the lock code at the door when a call to his comm lines catches his attention, : Ironhide, report to my office directly. : Optimus' calm baritone vocals orders.

: On my way, : Ironhide replies swiftly and locks his door again before heading toward the Prime's office. When he reaches the office and enters he sees Optimus sitting behind his desk, Jazz is trying to hassle Prowl, who is standing at attention to the left of Prime. Ultra Magnus is leaning against the wall with Sonic-blaster beside him and Optimus' sparkmate, Elita, is sitting on the large couch in the office along with the last femme Ironhide wanted to see at the moment, Chromia.

Ironhide scowls at her before he can stop himself. She must have been released from the brig at Optimus' orders meaning he is seeking council. A young, blue and white scout stands before Optimus' desk with his servos folded regally behind his back. Ironhide dislikes him immediately, but refrains from scalding the pompous looking mech with a glare.

"Mirage has just returned from a routine scouting mission. He reported the movement of a small group of Decepticons mobilizing from Kaon," Optimus fills in the members of his council not wasting a moment. Everyone promptly straightens their posture at the business like tone of his vocals. Optimus continues without pause, "Prowl has deduced from their lack of using a ground bridge that they do not want to be detected. In conclusion, we must assume that they are after something of great importance."

"How fast were they moving?" Ironhide asks Mirage.

"Very rapidly, approximately ten miles a klik _(1.2 earth minutes)_," Mirage answers smoothly with his accent betraying him as a former noble.

"Who is their leader?" Elita asks, hoping it is the Decepticon T.I.C., Starscream. Ironhide can tell by the light in her optics that she still wants to obliterate the seeker for what he did to her Metropolian troops. To tell the truth Ironhide wouldn't mind having a chance to snort in Starscream's faceplates at the fact that Megatron had demoted him from Second in Command to Third in Command because the battle at Metropolis so long ago didn't go the way he had planned.

"Galvatron's femme creation, Blitzer, and his mech creation, Extractor," the scout confirms.

The room falls silent. The Autobots have been hearing quite a bit about the Decepticon leader's young femme lately and one thing is for sure, Galvatron is grooming her to be his heir. She will make a vicious one at that, for she is ruthless on the battlefield. His son, however, still has lots to learn in the areas of combat, he never seems to be present in the brief skirmishes that his elder sibling is gaining such attention in.

"I can take a few soldiers and take care of them," Jazz volunteers easily and both Elita and Chromia smirk at the mech. Ironhide finds he is slightly jealous of the small saboteur. Chromia never smiles at him like that. He scowls at his sudden foolishness as he orders himself to get over it with some embaressment at his line of thinking.

"Actually I was thinking about sending Hot Rod," Optimus says thoughtfully. Ironhide snaps his helm in his commander's direction. Is he serious?!

"Optimus!" Ultra Magnus sputters as he steps forward from his place with his optics blinking rapidly.

"Now hang on here," Ironhide voices his opinion loudly, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Prime, I would recommend that you send Jazz instead," Prowl is saying at the same time.

"You're sending a mechling to do a femme's job?" Chromia asks in disbelief but her voice is drown out by the others speaking. Elita looks at her sister disapprovingly to let her know she heard and shakes her helm with a small frown. Obviously the pink commander isn't too sure about her mate's decision but supports him anyway.

"Prime, we cannot overlook the sightings of Quick-plot. Perhaps it would be wiser to send Jazz," Sonic-blaster says lowly under the arguing of the other Autobots for Optimus' audios only. The Prime nods his helm in indication that he heard his S.I.C. before raising a servo to quiet his arguing council. This silences the disagreements from the bots present.

"Optimus," Ultra Magnus warns still addressing the first issue and Optimus watches his older brother with knowing optics. Ever since Megatron had taken their brother from this very base, they have been protective. The agony is still clear in his own processor how he felt when the torture Megatron inflicted on Hot Rod coursed through their brother-bond on an emotional level. It had nearly driven them all insane to find him.

**Brother**, Optimus says gently through their sibling bond, **We have to let him go**. **If we don't he will never grow up and become the Prime he is destined to be**.

Ultra Magnus lowers his optics swiftly before he nods his cranial unit jerkily, knowing Optimus is right and wondering when his younger brother got so much wiser than him.

"Hot Rod is a remarkable fighter and a capable leader." Optimus addresses the room with decisiveness, "He will take the Wreckers with him."

Chromia almost snorts with laughter. There is no way the Wreckers are going to listen to anything Hot Rod says. The whole reason that the Wreckers are at Iacon in the first place is because they are once again leaderless at their own post. Something about an explosion and the mech in charge having to go to the emergency repair room for many 'systematic malfunctions' and 'partial armor loss'. Chromia has her own theory about what happened and it all points, in her opinion, to Wheeljack. She understands why Optimus wants to send them out though, the Wreckers, if left unactive for more than a couple cycles _(days) _could become a little... rowdy. What she doesn't understand is this apparent neural gasket he's had about putting Hot Rod in charge of them.

The Prime motions to Prowl to call Hot Rod to his office over the private comm. Prowl is silent for a few nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ before he turns to look at Optimus. "He is not responding," is tactician's rigid and unimpressed reply. Optimus vents deeply. Hot Rod seems to be rebelling more and more these cycles just by ignoring small orders, smarting off his superiors, and otherwise getting into petty arguments with his brothers about everything. Optimus tries to give him the benefit of the doubt but here of lately Hot Rod hasn't even been trying to meet him half way.

"Go find him, Ironhide," Optimus commands with his vocals sounding extremely weary of his brother's nonsense. His weapons specialist nods his helm and heads for the door. Ironhide growls as exits the office and inwardly promises himself that some cycle_ (day)_ he is going to kick that glitch-head to one of Cybertron's moons.

"Chromia go with him; make sure he doesn't do anything brash," Ultra Magnus orders and Optimus nods in agreement. The light blue femme nods in obedience, but wonders why one of the larger mechs didn't go in case the need to contain Ironhide presented itself; they would be able to do a better job than her against the brute of a mech. She follows Ironhide silently through the base's halls trying to make sure he isn't aware of his shadow, he probably wouldn't be impressed with the idea that she is supposed to keep him in line.

Chromia readily accepts this opportunity to freely look over the mech from behind. His enormous arms swing casually with his easy steps and dispite his large size he move with the agility of a cyber-cat. Her optics liberally scan over the mech's back and wide shoulders taking in the sight of two large rifles that are crisscrossed and attached to his armor. He is in no way lacking firepower. The only mech Chromia could think of that had even close to that many weapons on his frame was Boltwreck, her bodyguard from when she was still a young femmeling and living with her parental units. Boltwreck had the same temperament too. Always grouchy. Chromia smirks slightly and refocuses on the weapons specialist in front of her. Her optics continue to travel down…down…down... A vent catches in her throat pipes and she quickly averts her optics as her core temperature spikes in embarrassment. She did not just catch herself staring at the mech's skidplate!

The black mech stops ahead of her to ask her sister Arcee the whereabouts of Hot Rod. The dark blue femme merely points toward the rec room in a displeased manner and a roll of her optics. Ironhide stops short of entering the rec room and turns to look at Chromia with a raised optic ridge. Chromia stares back at him stupidly, his gaze causes a slight surge in her spark energy.

"You coming or not, femme?" he rumbles gruffly.

And she thought she was being stealthy, she has clearly underestimated the mech. Why she would do that is beyond her, especially considering the look of him. She is a highly trained warrior that never made mistakes, and here she has made a very clumsy one. She walks up beside the mech with curious optics.

"If you're here to make sure I don't give Hot Rod a trip to med bay you will find it much easier to do beside me." Ironhide says casually with absolutely no humor in his vocals.

"Smart aft," Chromia mutters with an amused smile on her faceplates. Ironhide allows a small smirk to grace his faceplates and Chromia's spark pulses irregularly. She just caused Ironhide to smile. Again. For the second time in one cycle _(day). _This should be listed as one of her top ten life acheivements. Ok, it wasn't exactly a smile, but it was a form of it. That counts right? She glances to the ground suddenly unable to hold the mech's unsettling gaze as her cooling system kicks in to ease her rising core temperature. What is wrong with her?!

Ironhide opens the rec room door without taking his optics from Chromia. Their gaze remains locked as they observe each other for a moment.

"After you, femme," he finally says, presenting the open door with a servo, reminding her of her nobility and how all the mechs used to treat her. It was slightly annoying, but yet when Ironhide did it, it was appealing. Even though many of the noble mech suitors avoided her because she tended to act like an uncultured mech from the slums she still missed her life before the war with her creators and sisters. They were happy. Simple.

She enters the rec room ahead of Ironhide and an awkward feeling creeps through her systems as she hears him start walking behind her. What if he is looking at her skidplate?! No, Ironhide wouldn't do that…would he? Not able to hang in suspense any longer Chromia glances swiftly over her shoulder at the mech behind her. His optics snap away from their previous focal point to look straight ahead. Chromia narrows her gaze at him in displeasure and warning. She pauses a moment to allow the mech to walk up next to her before she continues on beside him.

"Don't ever do that again," she says her voice dangerously low and threatening. Silence answers her for a few nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ and Chromia believes she has shamed him to remorse. Good, he deserved it!

He then rolls his massive shoulders as he spots a crowd of femmes around one of the couches lining the walls. "Just returning the favor," Ironhide replies easily as he marches toward the group of giggling fembots.

Chromia stops short as her engine sputters in sheer humiliation and indignity. Her core temperature quickly raises and her cooling systems hit their max. He knew?! How?! Chromia wanted Cybertron to open up and swallow her so she never have to see the mech again. Stupid! Chromia quickly pushes her embarrassed feelings and thoughts out of her processor and focuses on her current mission, protecting Hot Rod from Ironhide.

The weapons specialist quickly sends the young femmes on their way with a few grumpy comments, scattering them quickly. He looks down at the sight that had gathered them and vents in disappointment and some... relief? There on the large couch is Hot Rod with the little yellow sparkling laying on his chest, both venting deeply.

Chromia finally understands why the femmes of Cybertron are hyped over Hot Rod as she looks at him. He is downright irresistible with the mechling sprawled over top him. The pair would look absolutely serene if the sparkling wasn't drooling all over Hot Rod's chassis. Ironhide looks down at the sparkling with his optics softening slightly and Chromia feels her spark flutter. Maybe she is wrong about this mech? Just as the thought runs through her processor the mech's faceplates visibly harden.

"Capable my aft," he mutters harshly, "can't even take a sparkling to the youth sector."

Chromia holds back a bark of laughter as Ironhide roughly prods Hot Rod's side. This causes the tri-colored mech to leap off the couch battle ready. The little sparkling lets a fearful squeal and grapples for a hold on Hot Rod's armor, but flies off of his chest with a squall.

"Bug!" the Hot Rod shouts in alarm and quickly attempts to catch the falling sparkling, but he slips out of his servo. He snatches at the sparklet again, only succeeding in bumping him into the air and ends up juggling the little mech like some sort of circus bot. He finally catches the sparkling by one of his legs and the mechlet just squeals in delight. Hot Rod looks up at Ironhide with the giggling baby bot suspended in the air and smiles sheepishly.

Ironhide narrows his optics at the young mech as the wires in his arms begin to tick uncontrollably in the need to snatch the sparkling away. Chromia places a servo on the irritated mech's forearm to stop any advancement toward the youngling. Taking in his ex-teacher's infuriated faceplates, Hot Rod looks at the sparkling to see what caused it and sees he is holding the Bug upside down. The Hot Rod's blue optics widen in horror and he swiftly flips the baby bot around before he looks back at his mentor and gives an easy, jovial smile.

"Optimus wants you in his office immediately," Chromia supplies to the young mech, discreetly saving him from Ironhide's wrath. He nods lazily and smiles as he allows his optics to run freely over the length of her mainframe. Chromia narrows her optics at him in a warning gaze. He steps forward and hands the sparkling over to Ironhide.

"Here," he says casually as if he didn't feel the mortal danger he is in from the older mech, either that or he has enough confidence in his fighting skills that he would be able to hold his own. Chromia guesses it's the latter, Hot Rod seems like the cocky type. He pauses in front of her with an attractive smile, and gently grasps her small servo in his larger one pressing it to his lip plates. "Chromia," he says her designation in a purr, his vocals low and playful.

Chromia raises her optic ridge at Hot Rod's mischievousness; unsure whether to be irritated, amused, or flattered. This young mech in front of her is a far cry from the youngling that she had helped save from Megatron all those vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ ago. She decides to let it pass as harmless flirting; at least he didn't make a lewd comment like Ironfist.

As Hot Rod moves for the exit he brushes lightly against her shoulder. She turns and watches him saunter out. The femmes around here really do not stand a chance, she decides with a smirk. As she watches the young mech depart she hears Ironhide scoff. She glances at the weapons specialist with highly unentertained optics, demanding he explain himself.

"I didn't peg you for a femme that would fall for Hot Rod's foolish flirting," he says with an I-don't-give-a-scrap shrug.

Chromia grins widely at the mech, jealousy is what they call that. She decide to tease him about it to see his reaction, "Jealous much?"

Ironhide's optic ridge flattens into a straight line and something like irritation colors his optics. He doesn't answer, he only looks down at the squirming sparkling in his arms before he turns wordlessly away and walks out of the rec room leaving an exceedingly confused femme behind.

Frag him.

* * *

_There you have it. They love each other... they just don't know it yet. ;D lol_

_Leave your thoughts in a review. Encourage, critic, point out a favorite part, whatever totes your goats._


	5. Chapter 4

_Hey there everyone. Fanfiction is still acting like its on dope, that accounts for the late update. Is there a way to file a complaint? ;) lol Cause I might have to. Anyway, as I promised last time, here is an actiony chapter! Hoorah!_

_P.S. If you find any mistakes please inform me, because I had to basically rewrite the whole chapter. Thank you._

_P.S.S. Blitzer, Extractor, and that random mech named Lash are my O.C.s just so that you don't get confused or something._

* * *

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Things are quiet. Too quiet. Blitzer frowns as she transforms and halts her team with a raised servo. She hears her brother Extractor transform beside her and huff loudly in irritation at her delaying.

"We must keep going, Blitzer," Extractor mutters for her audios only, "Our leaders won't be pleased if we do not procure the relic."

Blitzer scowls at her brother before focusing on the land around her once more. Stillness greets her straining audios, "I'm going to comm Soundwave and tell him to have reinforcements ready if something should turn up."

Extractor rolls his ruby optics at her before he snorts, Blitzer tones him out though as she comms the C.O. : Blitzer to Soundwave, Soundwave come in : The purple and black femme listens intently for the reply, but all is silent on the other end. A sudden screech of static suddenly waifs through the links and hisses into her audios. Blitzer winces at the feedback and cuts the line.

"Our comms are down," Extractor growls beside her with a servo to one of his audios. Probably trying to soothe its ringing.

"Autobots," Blitzer says with her faceplates expressionless, "They're overriding our frequencies."

Extractor curses, "How could've they detected us?!"

"More than likely a scout happened upon us," Blitzer replies with a frown. She glances at her surroundings, "We will proceed. Keep your energy detectors alert. We must be at the rendezvous point in five kliks_ (1.2 earth min.)_" She signals for the rest of her team to transform and follow her. Extractor falls into a walk a little to her left and behind her. Just as well, if they would happen to run into Autobots she would rather he would stay behind her. She wouldn't be able to protect his sorry aft if it was in front of her.

She glances at her brother briefly then scowls. Why did her mech creator insist she bring Extractor with? He will only get offlined and even though her brother annoys the slag out of her, she would rather keep him. He is an asset.

They had been sparked at the same time, twins if you will, but not split sparked. She was brought into existence only a few kliks _(1 klik = 1.2 earth min.)_ before him. He had inherited their Carrier's looks and complete lack of combat abilities. The only useful thing he acquire was their mech Creator's unpredictable ruthlessness and ability to make hard decisions quickly.

Blitzer on the other servo is a gifted prodigy in the areas of warfare. Megatron himself couldn't deny it. She acquired her coloring and skill from their father's coding. The only thing Blitzer received from their deactivated mother was her blasted hesitancy to be needlessly cruel. Curse that inheritance to the pit and back.

Because of both twins' weaknesses, Extractor's physical inability and Blitzer's softness of spark, it will take the both of them to rule their father's army when the time comes. This fact annoys Blitzer. If she could just not think on the battlefield, if she would just do without having looking into her enemy's optics and feel remorse then she would be perfect. Extractor would be her lesser and she would be the obvious superior.

Something blips on the side of her energy scanner and her thought process is redirected. What's this? Her reader beeps again and Blitzer's weapons are subspaced within an astro-second_ (1/2 of an earth sec.). _Her optics narrow as she scans the area around her team again. She hears the mechs behind her begin drawing their cannons and what not. Frag them and their slowness.

The blip on her reader grows in strength and suddenly spreads out. Blitzer is about to turn and issue an order for her team to take cover when light glinting off metal catches her optic. Autobots. More specifically, the Wreckers. Blitzer huffs at her bad luck and studies the mechs as the two groups glare at one another in a quiet predatory way. They're all large mechs with heavy weapons. A bright red mech with orange and yellow highlights appears to be the leader of the group, Blitzer doesn't remember ever seeing him before. She counts them swiftly and growls lowly when she realizes that the odds aren't in her team's favor.

One of the Autobot's, a medium sized mech with a white, red and green paint scheme steps forward, "Fancy meeting you Cons out here on this fine cycle _(day)_."

One of her warriors snarls and starts forward with his fist clenched. Blitzer stops him by raising a small, commanding servo and shooting him a warning glare, "Back in line, Breakdown. We're outgunned." Breakdown stops short and sends a withering scowl at the Autobots.

"Yeah, Breakdown, stay," the same Autobot, Blitzer identifies him as Wheeljack, taunts lazily, "Stay with your master, pet."

Breakdown's armor flares and his frame trembles in a building rage. Blitzer subdues him again with a hissed order, "Breakdown, stay put."

He listens... or he would have.

"Now, siiit," the tri-colored leader of the Wreckers coaxes mockingly. The other Wreckers snicker and snort disgustingly at Breakdown's expense and the latter charges with a roar, unable to take the Autobot insults any longer.

"Breakdown!" Blitzer bellows angrily as he surges toward the Autobots... alone. He is going to get offlined, blast him! She prepares to issue the the order to attack when she hears Extractor growl out a warning to the rest of their troops.

"Fall back, there's too many of them!"

Blitzer's denta clench. Breakdown will be offlined if they drop back. She spins to Extractor, "They came here with the sole purpose to stop us and they won't be satisfied with stopping only one!" Extractor curses under his vents as Blitzer turns to the rest of her followers, "Engage the enemy!" she commands roughly as she whirls while pulling her battle axe from its perch on her back. The rest of the Decepticons charge after her. Blitzer runs faster to catch up with Breakdown and then stays beside him. The moron was going to dive helm long into a fight with the Wreckers while leading the charge by a good length. Idibot!

She and Breakdown meet the Autobots at the same time. The mech that seems to be somewhat in charge of the Wreckers singles her out and lunges at her with a subspaced sword. She blocks his blow and swipes at him. One of the other Wreckers grab her from behind, lifting her into the air, she elbows him in the faceplates causing energon to spurt from his right optic. He drops her with a snarl before he gets tackled by one of her soldiers, Lash.

The large, red, orange and yellow tri-colored mech attacks her again as soon as her pedes touch the ground. She dodges and swings her battle axe at his chassis with a snarl on her lip plates. Much to her annoyance, he deflects her strike easily and counterattacks with a large subspaced blade that extends from his right servo and forearm. She blocks his blow with little difficulty, but is caught by surprise when she sees his left arm, with a sharp, gleaming blade extending from it, carving the air toward her helm!

Blitzer jerks back with her optics wide as the metal screeches across her faceplates leaving a thin cut from her jaw line to the corner of her mouthplates. That she wasn't expecting!

The mech grins at her obvious astonishment and strikes again, trying to lure her into a battle of strength. Blitzer only deflects his sword and moves further away with her stance more guarded. She's not dumb. Not just anyone could mark her so easily. The cut on her faceplates allows a thin trail of wet energon to run down her neck cables as a caution to her not to take this Autobot lightly.

A gutted scream sounds to Blitzer's right and her optics automatically scan for the source with a stifling fear that it is Extractor. Stupid! Blitzer spins away from the mech's blade as it whistles by her chassis, nearly digging into her breastplate! She blocks his left blade and grits her denta as he follows her retreat while raining her with attacks. She catches both his swords with the hilt of her battle axe and attempts to throw him away from her... it backfires. The mech braces himself and uses his massive weight against her, his arms bend and for a nano-klik_ (second)_ they are optic to optic. His whitish gaze sears into her red one. Then he throws her.

Blitzer angles her frame as she crashes to the hard surface of Cybertron to land on both pedes and one servo. Her servo tightens around her axe as she lands and skids to a stop. Hastily she glances around her. Her small group of mechs are faring as well as to be expected against the Wreckers. Two of her usual ten are down, their stares black and empty, and energon seeping out of their fatal wounds.

A short feeling of panic zaps through her systems when her optics don't locate Extractor, but then is shut down instantly as she rises to meet the tri-colored mech's rush. She knocks his heavy strike away and her parry sets him slightly off balance. As he swiftly regains his battle stance her optics travel franticly for her brothers familiar purple and grey armor. The Autobot uses her distraction to swipe at her helm!

Blitzer ducks the blow then, as the mech's momentum drags his arm around, weaves behind him and triumphantly leaps onto his back. She hoists her axe high to bury it into his helm and be done with her irritating adversary, the familiar feeling of victory courses through her wires. Much to her dismay the mech jumps backwards and throws himself onto the ground. His mammoth weight lands squarely on top of her and all the air leaves her vents. A strangled wheeze tears through her as the mech lifts himself off of her, turns and lifts his sword with a leer.

Something screeches and a familiar grey and purple frame leaps onto the large Autobot's back. Extractor!

**What the frag do you think you're doing?** Blitzer barks at her brother through their twin bond as she stumbles to her pedes. She no longer has her axe. She must have dropped it when that heffalump of a mech tried to crush her. An angered roar from the Autobot grasps the Decepticon femme's attention as he struggles to dislodge her sibling.** Offline him and be done with it! **Blitzer snaps as she staggers at fault of her half-stunned systems... there is only so much weight a femme can handle being smashed with. As the Autobot is preoccupied, Blitzer searches for her fallen axe, she finds it quickly with relief coursing through her systems.

**You know, I am saving your aft; stop being so ungrateful,** Extractor hisses at her before he laughs with a malicious undertone,** You can thank me when we- **The Autobot's servo snags Extractor's shoulder armor and tears him away from his back, a savage snarl crackling from the tri-colored mech's throatpipes as he throws the Decepticon mech to the ground. Her brother hits the ground hard, Blitzer can hear metal groan as he rolls wildly in a flailing heap of limbs, matter flies eraticly with every turn of his body until he skids to a stop and doesn't move. The Autobot goes after him.

Saving her aft, huh? Blitzer almost snorts as she charges after the Autobot to protect her dazed little brother. She clenches her axe tighter as she sprints to the aid of her befuddled sibling, and leaps between him and the angered Autobot with her red optics blazing,** Leave him to me!**

The Autobot doesn't waste any time. He swings at her with a growl in his throat and she blocks him with her axe. The force of the weapons' collision jars up her armstruts and tears her axe from her servos! It skitters across the Cybertronian flat with sparks jumping from it with every bounce. Blitzer growls and transforms both her servos into her short swords as the mech swipes at her again. She catches his blades with hers and a charming _grin_ touches the Autobot's faceplates. He is _toying_ with_ her_!

A rage swells inside of her and she lunges for him, swinging her right blade. He merely knocks her sword away, forcing her into a maddening, disorientating spin. She steadies herself and catches a dizzying image of Extractor still laying in the same position on the ground.

Blitzer shakes her helm to rid her processor of its dizziness and looks up to see the tri-colored Autobot delivering what will be the final blow to end her! He brings his right sword down over his cranial unit in a way that will split her straight down the middle! Blitzer instinctively crosses both her blades and stops his sword barely a foot from her helm. His denta bare and he puts more force on his weapon. Her arms begin to tremble under his tremendous strength and the force he exerts on her begins to drive her to her knee plates. She can see past him. He mechs are being cut down with only six of the original ten remaining and are losing quickly. She realizes with a sinking feeling in her gears that if they don't get backup soon they are going to lose.

With a grunt she raps out a command, "Lash! Drive until you can get a comm to Soundwave! Tell him we need reinforcements now!" Lash breaks away from the battle immediately, transforming into his alt mode he speeds away with a spiral of particles spraying behind him from his fast takeoff.

"Roadbuster!" The mech she is fighting surprises her be shouting, his vocals deep but very young sounding, "After him!" He is promptly ignored by all his troops. A growl from the Autobot shows his frustration and he hisses something inaudible about 'fragging Wreckers'. What is this? Decent in the ranks? Blitzer almost smiles as she struggles against the large mech. She will use that to her advantage!

A swift movement catches her attention and her optics widen in horror as she sees the mech's free weapon coming at her from the side with the intention of cutting her in half the other way! Slag, this mech fights like a Decepticon; she wasn't expecting that! Blitzer leaps into the air and curves her abdomen away from the Autobot's weapon while she still holds his other blade in a deadly lock above her helm. The sword whispers pasted her chassis a few meager centimeters away and transforms into a plasma cannon as it swings! Panic clogs her throatpipes as the cannon whirs to life, but the mech doesn't use it on her. Instead he fires under his raised arm three quick shots into the distance, her optics follow the blasts and her denta clench angrily as two of the three shots pelt Lash. The Decepticon's alt-mode flips weirdly and somersaults through the air in the distance with blue liquid spraying the atmosphere around him.

Anger fills Blitzer's frame and she purposely falls backwards. Gravity is on her side and her rapid decent forces the mech down with her. As he falls toward her, his sword still advancing her cranial unit, Blitzer tucks her legs to her chassis, plants her pedes firmly on his abdominal plates and kicks him over her with all of her strength, determined not to be squashed again. She grabs the Autobot's arms as he crashes to the ground above her and flips herself over him to straddle his midsection. She stabs at his helm with both of her blades, but the mech easily defends himself by crossing both of his swords and catching her weapons in the V that they create.

He pushes her off the side and she lands harshly on her shoulder plating, then rolls to her pedes shakily. A swift glance tells her that she is now down to four mechs. The only way they are holding on is that they took cover and are firing at the Wreckers from a distance. None of the other Wreckers are paying attention to the fight ensuing between her and their apparent leader. They aren't worried.

The realization rankles and she braces herself for the mech's next attack. As he comes at her again she catches a glimpse of purple and grey behind him. Extractor... What had she told him?! He never listens!

**Extractor, don't! I have him! Stay out of it!** Blitzer snarls as they exchange a series of wild blows and blocks.

**Oh, come on, Blitzer. Don't get all heroic on me now. We're late the way it is, I'll end it quickly. Just distract him, **Extractor reassures her with an evil smile. Blitzer growls lowly as she blocks another strike; offline the Autobot from behind, did she agree with that? Swiftly she pushes her mother's weakling thoughts out of her processor and focuses on the tri-colored mech in front of her. He will be offlined in a nano-klik_ (1 earth sec.)_. Its almost a shame, he's quite handsome...

The time seems to crawl dramatically into slow motion. Extractor rushes the Autobot. His burning, red optics enlarge as he raises his sword for the deactivating thrust, his lip plates part in a silent bellow as his blades stabs for the Autobot's back. The mech's own optics blaze white and he kicks Blitzer down before he retracts both his subspace swords; the whirrs and whines ring in her audios! Three enormous blades extract from his wrist beyond his clenched fists with a seemingly slow, drawn out, metal on metal sound.

Her spark pulses in her audios as a dreading fear grips her. It pounds in her throat, her optics, and makes her feel as if she is sinking in a sea of liquid. She hears herself gasp; she tries to shout, but her vocals are stuck in her throatpipes. An unrelenting fear thunders in her chassis as the sunlight catches the gleaming claws of death.

This mech is Hot Rod!

Hot Rod spins easily on his attacker and buries the blades on his right arm deep into Extractor's chest with a savage roar, driving Extractor harshly to the ground. Hot Rod's thundering bellow echoes across Cybertron.

All the air in Blitzer's vents gust out and a pained rush. Her red optics widen as Extractor's begin to flicker!

No!

Hot Rod snarls viciously at the offlining Decepticon beneath him and he buries the triple blades on his other servo into Extractor's spark chamber. The red in her brother's gaze stutters and falls immediately black as night. His presence fades, she can't feel his stupid, annoying, familiar self in the back of her processor like she always could. Hot Rod unremorsefully pulls both of his weapons free of the deactivated Decepticon and then stands, he glances at Blitzer, who is staring at her brother's frame. His optic ridge raises and he cocks his helm to one side mockingly as if to ask her what she is going to do about what he just did.

She tries to breath but it comes as a choked cry. Someone screams. It is her. Her vocals strain with her anguished screech and she charges Hot Rod, wild with anger and pain. She attacks the mech again and again with screams betraying her infuriation. She continues to attack using both her subspace weapons repeatedly and rapidly but the Autobot deflects each blow easily offering her a lopsided smirk informing her that he is morbidly enjoying her disposition. Blitzer feels her core temperature rising fast with an uncontrollable rage.

She attacks again and he blocks. Energon from his 'claws' splatters onto her faceplates. Extractor's energon. Extractor...

Pain sears through her spark and she doubles over with a small wail. This is a very little window but it is all Hot Rod needs. His 'claws' retract and his servo shoots out like lightening to catch her by her neck plating, his lip plates morphed into a hate filled scowl. His one servoed grip tightens and her plating begins to crack painfully. A gasp tears at her throat and her subspace weapons alter back into her regular forearms, her slender servos claw at the Autobot's arm franticly in a feeble attempt to lessen his hold. His whitened optics pierce into hers and a sneer carves his handsome faceplates into a daunting chasm of pure rage. Her whole frame shudders as she stares back at him with her mouthplates agape and her vents heaving.

Blitzer has seen the look on Hot Rod's face plates far too many times in the Decepticon ranks to not know what it means. It is the evil glare that grinds into the features of a killer before they offline someone mercilessly... only it is intensified tenfold.

Only one thought runs through her processor endlessly as she stares into the optics of deactivation. What will become of Tempestfire? Her small, stunted, adopted femmeling, who is well into her youngling stage. Many of the mechs around the base had guffawed at her when she'd taken in the femmlet because it was so laughable. A young femme, un-bonded and not even fully grown herself with a youngling that isn't hers. They called her pathetic. Maybe she is. Truth be known, the tiny femmeling is the product of Megatron's attempt to gain an heir. When she was brought into existence and it became clear that she would always be a runt he had thought of the femmeling as worthless. He deemed the little femmeling useless and ordered she be eradicated. Exterminated, was his exact words. Spoken like one would of a pesky skraplet. This was when Blitzer stepped in. To be honest she is still surprised that Megatron agreed to let her keep the femmelet.

What will it matter now? Now that she is to offline on this cycle_ (day)_, who will look after her Tempestfire? Who will keep her out of Megatron's way so that the huge warlord won't suddenly see fit to blow her to bits with one shot of his cannon?

Blitzer intakes a rugged breath as she continues to grapple at Hot Rod's tightly clenched servo. Another wave of pain bombards her spark and she cries out under its intensity. The femme bravely holds back the tears that want to be shed over her brother, and the possibility of never seeing Tempestfire again and awaits for her inevitable demise.

* * *

Hot Rod glares at the purple femme he is holding tightly by the neck plates. By Primus, he had never in his life seen a femme more beautiful. Too bad she's a Decepticon, its a waste. He tightens his hold around her neckplates and grins in a small victory as she cries out in pain. Tears form in her hellish red orbs and he sneers at her. Her optics blink rapidly and she fixes him with a defiant and furious glare that all Decepticons seem to wear just moments before their end. He can't help the respect he suddenly feels toward the femme and he gives her a slightly impressed nod with a smirk on his lip components.

A blue and green porthole comes into existence in this moment, several hundred yards away and Hot Rod grins, it wouldn't be one of theirs. So it must be Cons. Good, a fresh group. The others are almost finished anyway. Much to the young Autobot's surprise only one huge bulky mech comes bellowing through the ground bridge with his cannons roaring and the ground trembling under his hulking weight.

Galvatron.

Of course! Hot Rod grins widely in realization. The femme he has in his servo is Blitzer, Galvatron's femme creation. The way that the femme had reacted to the mech he had offed they could have been siblings, or something, so he had to be Extractor, Galvatron's mech creation. And now here comes the fragger himself.

The huge Decepticon's enraged optic land on Hot Rod, they travel to Blitzer, then back to Hot Rod. Hot Rod smirks at the 'great' leader and his so obvious weak points. He gives Galvatron a mocking sneer before he extracts his claws on his free servo and plunges them into the femme's midsection. He feels her whole frame shudder as the metal enters her side, but her vocals stay quiet in a silent defiance in her last moments, refusing to let him hear her pain.

Galvatron roars, his whole frame shaking with rage, then charges at the Autobot. Hot Rod's expression steels as he carelessly throws the fembot to the ground before he walks purposefully toward his adversary.

He calls to the other Wreckers as he walks, "Fall back and follow the Decepticons' previous course."

One of the Wreckers, Leadfoot, stalks up next to him with a snort, "Pft," he mocks, "fall back. Yeah right."

Hot Rod whirls and grabs the short, stout mech by the collar armor and lifts him to optic level, "I said," Hot Rod growls fiercely with his own armor flaring tensely in warning, completely tired of being ignored, "fall back."

The short, red Wrecker scowls, but nods his helm in grudging obedience. The larger mech sets the offender back onto the ground harshly with a scowl of his own before turning to continue his previous path that is taking him toward the weakly charging Galvatron.

"You're glitched!" the sea-foam green colored mech, designated Seaspray, exclaims before he turns while transforming and speeds in the direction the Cons where heading before they were found, followed by the rest of the Wreckers.

Wheeljack falls into step with Hot Rod as they face the advancing Decepticon.

"Wheeljack, go," Hot Rod warns.

"Like pit," Wheeljack tells his commanding officer smugly. He pulls his trademark weapons from his back and swings the sabers in preparation. Seeing he isn't going to get anywhere with the inventorbot, Hot Rod nods to him before he extracts his claws and charges at the Decepticon with Wheeljack close behind.

As the Autobots and Hot Rod approaches Galvatron, the huge Decepticon swings his large sword toward the younger mech's midsection. Hot Rod drops to the ground quickly and he limbos under the swing on his knee plates with the weapon passing only a few centimeters above him! He could hear the loud swish of the angry Con's unforgiving blade. He leaps back to his pedes quickly with a swift counterattack, and though Galvatron is clumsy with pain from his broken bonds with his creations, the Decepticon dodges.

Wheeljack runs to the left and engages in battle with two of the Con's that had been holed up when the fighting first started. He cuts at the Con's chassis swiftly... there is no competition and within three nano-kliks_ (1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ the Decepticon is laying helmless on the ground. The other sports a morning star, and swings it widely at Wheeljack's faceplates. Stupid. Wheeljack rolls his optics before hitting the chain with his saber. This action causes the chain to wrap around his sword rapidly, trapping it quite effectively. Wheeljack pulls the chain toward him and the Decepticon refuses to let go. Stupid again. Wheeljack wrenches the Con toward him and uses the staggering mech's momentum to drive his other saber though his helm.

Meanwhile Hot Rod mocks Galvatron with a smile that makes light of the Decepticon's anger and pained faceplates. The warmonger is clutching at his chest with obvious signs of fatigue.

"How 'bout I put these away? Make it fair," Hot Rod sneers before he retracts his claws and attacks again by socking Galvatron over the jaw with a loud clang that sends him reeling! It is immediately followed by a brutal punch to the gears.

The Con swings wildly at Hot Rod with a scream of rage and pain. The Autobot merely smirks and sidesteps before hitting the Decepticon repetitively in the faceplates, causing energon to flow from Galvatron's lip plates. Hot Rod whirls and kicks the huge mech in the chassis, a move that sends the Decepticon leader summersaulting across the Cybertronian flats.

Galvatron groans as he pushes himself to his pedes but falls clumsily back to his knee plates. Hot Rod walks up to the Decepticon and looks down at his evil faceplates and blazing red optics, he chuckles at his adversary, "Your coming here was personal, wasn't it, Galvie?" Hot Rod grabs the weakened Con and forces his helm upward so he would have to look into the face plates of his offliner. His claws unhurriedly extract, slowly putting presser on Galvatron's main energon line. "Personal," Hot Rod whispers darkly, "Is not good for business."

Galvatron's optics widen visibly as he stares at his adversary in stupor and incomprehension.

A flash of blue explodes on Hot Rod's chassis, propelling him backwards to land harshly on his skidplate. A growls erupts from the young mech's vocals as he regains his pedes and glares for the source. It is coming from a tall, lithe frame, hunched over and trying to staunch energon from its waist, servos wraped around a large blaster... the femme... That blasted femme! Why is she still online!? He will finish her after Galvatron!

Before the enraged Autobot can take another step another ground bridge opens and Decepticons come pouring through, firing plasma blasts at the two lone Autobots. Wheeljack quickly returns the gunfire with his own blasts! Hot Rod growls in frustration before he turns away from the impending enemy. He gives his downed foe a measuring look before he smiles menacingly.

Later," he promises before he turns to Wheeljack, "Retreat." The two of them transform and speed in the direction the other Wreckers went.

* * *

Blitzer nearly shrinks back in fear when the Autobot lunges off the ground after she shot him, his armor quivering with madness. His optics find her's and there is disbelief. Cruelty. Anger. A ground bridge roars to life and Blitzer almost cries with relief when mechs with the Decepticon insignia come pouring out. The two Autobots that stayed behind exchange fire with her faction before retreating to follow their comrades.

Blitzer doubles over and collapses to her side. In her fading vision she can see Extractor's offlined frame. Her father's pedes coming closer to her and his red optics staring down at her with pain and disappointment. Disappointment that she didn't protect Extractor. A cry fights to be voiced and comes out as a strangles cough that causes energon to spew from her mouthplates. Her optics fade as she feels herself being lifted and the last thing she feels before she drifts off into unconsciousness is hate. Hate for the Autobot with the energon of her brother staining his blades.

* * *

_There you are. And if Galvatron seem kind of like a wimp to you it is because his creator bond with Extractor just got smash by Hot Rod... :l Not sure about you right now, Hot Rod. You're being mean. And you just made an enemy._

_Anyway on a brighter note, who all watched Captain America: The Winter Soldier? It was so good! It was a bucket of feels is what it was! My opinion: The best movie Marvel has made to date. You may state your opinion if you wish. ;D_


	6. Chapter 5

_Hi again! :D So here's chapter five everyone. Hope you like it._

_If you notice that something doesn't make sense please let me know because my computer has be slyly erasing my sentences as I type and *sigh* I am thinking of giving him his very own honorary Decepticon designation. _

* * *

**Chapter Five**

* * *

Rage is a funny thing. Once it grips you, it refuses to release. It owns you, tries to control you. It tries to drag you down an easy path that you don't realize is not a path at all, but a pit.

He can feel it in his wires. Tingling through his systems as he and Wheeljack speed mutely in the direction of the other Wreckers. It lies almost dormant in a silent wait. He hates it and it feeds upon his hatred.

:Wheeljack? Hot Rod? : Bulkhead calls to them over the comm links.

: Yeah? : Hot Rod answers with some of his simmering anger leaking into his tone.

Bulkhead hesitates at the snapishness of the younger mech's vocals before he continues, : We found someone. Its pretty likely that he's the reason those Cons were coming out this way. :

: You got 'im detained? : Wheeljack inquires and speeds up fractionaly.

: No, we let him go...: Pyro interjects sarcasicly without any consent.

: Of course we detained him! : Leadfoot snarls above the many other vocals that crowd the comm lines.

: Who the frag do you think we are, Jack? : Whirl snaps irritably.

Wheeljack snorts loudly, : Good-for-nothing, lazy afts. Am I wrong? :

The arguement continues. Loudly. Hot Rod grits his denta and cut the link so he won't have to listen to their petty squabling and idle trashtalking. He's almost had his fill of the Wrecker's for one cycle_ (day)_. The spawns-of-glitches never listen to anything he says. Not that he should have expected anything less.

A scowl creases his features as he spots the rest of the Wreckers and he angles toward them. As he and Wheeljack near, he transforms smoothly into his bi-pedal mode, easily coming to a stop in front of the other mechs. Hot Rod scowls at the scuffed up form in the midst of the rowdy bunch... the fragger. He's probably a black market dealer. The prisoner is hunched on his kneeplates, his helm turns away from the bots around him as if he doesn't want to be identified.

Hot Rod saunters forward with his optics narrowing, "Who the slag is so important that it took both of Galvatron's crea-" The prisoner's helm lisfts to meet the younger mech's optic and Hot Rod stops dead in his tracks. Quick-plot. The first thing Hot Rod notices is that the traitor's optics are still blue. A burning symbol of what he used to be, of what he betrayed. Rage spills through Hot Rod's systems as he stares at the black and grey mech before him.

So this is who the Decepticons where meeting and wanted to keep it quiet. Hot Rod's optics flash with raw hatred as he glares at the bot kneeling before him. This is the one who betrayed his faction, who let Megatron hurt Springer so badly that it had taken him countless stellar cycles _(earth years)_ to heal physically and emotionally, and allowed Megatron to kidnap _him,_ submitting him to cycles _(days)_ of torture. Megatron himself is the only Cybertronian Hot Rod despises more than this sadistic traitor.

Hot Rod's faceplates become unreadable as he walks up to the mech. His optics remain steady on Quick-plot, who starts to fidget under the almost whiteness of his scrutinizing gaze.

"We found this with him," Topspin reports to Wheeljack, malic dripping off his voice as he hands the inventor the Forge of Solus Prime. As if Wheeljack is in charge... Hot Rod's systems heat wildly as his anger builds fast at the disrespectful Wreckers. His armor lifts angrily for a fraction of a nano-klik_ (second)_ before a familiar set of vocals drives sense into his helm once more.

: Hot Rod, report, : Optimus orders over the Autobot's public link. At least the superiors remember who they put in charge of this mission. Hot Rod holds back a sneer at the Wreckers as he answers the comm with his own vocals tight.

: Decepticon party: neutralized. Decepticon collaborator: detained. Forge of Solus Prime: recovered, : Hot Rod answers properly and he allows a tense smile to cross his lip components. Even if the Wreckers are being aft-pipes and general slaggers, this is still his first mission, and it went without a hitch for the most part. His smile becomes a more genuine smirk as he relays into the comm link, : Mission has been highly successful, if I do say so myself. :

Sonic-blaster's light chuckle sounds through the comm. : Good job, kid, : he says, the smile on his faceplates easy to hear in his voice, : Ironhide has taught you well. :

Hot Rod rolls his optics in good humor at the older mech.

: Don't you roll your optics at me, tot, : Sonic-blaster says with a chuckle.

: Yes, mother, : Hot Rod says sarcastically. The Wreckers around him try to suppress their snickers at the two mech's bickering.

: Ha, ha, : Sonic-blaster mutters sarcastically to humor his younger counterpart before he orders with his grin still audible, : Bring the prisoner back to base for questioning. You did well. :

: Gotcha. : Hot Rod ends the link swiftly then turns, "All right, let's pack it up." No one moves. The irritability that had gone when he chatted with Sonic-blaster comes rushing back as the Wreckers defiantly do absolutely nothing. "Are your audios ruptured?" Hot Rod growls with his temper mounting even higher than it was before.

"We'll question the prisoner before we go back to base," Wheeljack asserts with his vocals rough and a sinister grin on his mouthplates, "The results are always better this way."

It starts immediately, the questions rain like acid pellets. Scalding. Dripping with hate and brimmed with the promise of certain death if not answered. Painful death.

"Why were you meeting the Decepticons?" Bulkhead asks the traitor in a level tone that does nothing to conceal the hostility in his blue optics.

Quick-plot raises his helm to look into his interrogator's optics with fake innocence. "What do you mean? I wasn't meeting any Decepticons!"

He defends himself nobly, with his blue optics raised and his optic ridge furrowed to display confusion. As if he still had a dignity to defend. Hot Rod clenches his servos, anger building at the mech and his false virtue.

"Yeah? And I'm Alpha Trion," Underhand snorts sarcastically as he glares at the mech intensely. Underhand's emotions concerning Quick-plot would be understated if described as hate. Quick-plot knew what was going to happen at Metropolis that lunar cycle_ (night)_ all those vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_ ago, yet he did nothing. He helped. He aided the slaying of friends, brothers, and sisters. The recent demise of Paxus certainly isn't helping Quick-plot's popularity among the Wreckers.

"How did you come to have the Forge?" Bulkhead tries again with his famous patience wearing thin as he gestures toward the enormous hammer in Wheeljack's servos.

"I found it in Decepticon possession and took it from them," he answers evenly.

Liar. Hot Rod's engine snarls at the traitor's reply and Quick-plot looks at him with his optics momentarily terrified before his gaze averts from the younger mech with something like... shame? Hot Rod grits his denta at the rage that seeps into him at the very though. Quick-plot should be ashamed. He should be cowering down in fear of what he deserves.

What does he deserve?

Hot Rod feels his temper bucking loose as haunting memories begin to play out in his processor. The utter helplessness he felt when Megatron's claws dug into his armplating and wrenched him along like a whipped drone. The clang of the warlord's monstrous fists making contact with his frame swarms his audios falsely. It swirls through his thoughts along with the pain and agony of the torture he'd endured... And the sorrow of losing Sentinel, his father.

"And what exactly was you going to do with it, hmm?" Underhand asks with his optic ridge raised in sarcasm.

"I was returning it," Quick-plot states boldly, causing Wheeljack to start forward with a growl in his throat pipes and his servos clenched tightly.

"Jackie," Bulkhead warns his friend gently, placing a large four digit servo in his way. The smaller of the two bares his denta angrily and backs off with his optics murderous.

"Why do you care anyway? You're Wreckers," Quick-plot asks suddenly with a condescending snort and a high and mighty gleam in his optics. Fury blinds Hot Rod at the traitor's superior and commanding tone and he isn't the only one to be put off by the Quick-plot's words.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Underhand hisses, taking a threatening step forward, but is stopped by Seaspray.

"You don't even belong to the Autobot faction! You're a disgrace! But the Decepticons sure as Pit don't want you either! Everybody despises you like scraplets they just can't get rid of. You're too Autobot for Decepticons, and too Decepticon for Autobots!" the traitor spits out scornfully.

Engines roar with indignation and Bulkhead growls out a command to the Wreckers, "Keep your helms on straight, mechs."

_Why is Bulkhead suddenly giving orders?!_ Hot Rod's systems temperature skyrockets and his frame trembles as the Wreckers' arguing continues.

"I'd say frag taking him back to base. Let's just finish him here!" Twintwist snarls with his cannons subspacing to emphasis his point. Agreement choruses through the midst of them.

_So now this is a democracy?!_

Pyro leans next to Quick-plots audios and cackles, "It's not like anyone will miss you when you're gone. Besides, majority rules."

Hot Rod snaps. He really isn't sure how it happens but somehow Pyro ends up on the ground with his faceplates stunned. Hot Rod's blades are out and his armor is standing outward aggressively, his systems heave with the stressful heat and his helm pounds forcefully with his rage. His optics find the rest of the Wreckers who are glaring at _him_ as if_ he_ is the turncoat.

"We are taking him back to base," Hot Rod says finally. It comes out as a roar. Some of the Wreckers flinch and Quick-plot cowers. Hot Rod barely notices though the blinding white hatred that scorches through his spark.

As he turns to Quick-plot the mech smiles at him, "I knew you'd come through for me, mechling."

Rage is a funny thing. It doesn't creep up on you, it rushes. When it comes you can't stop it no matter how hard you try. It is coming, but you are powerless... but only for an instant. Because after that helpless feeling of having your mind bent out of shape into a ravenous beast of anger and utter hatred... you feel power.

Hot Rod leaps forward and lands an unforgiving knee to the stooping Quick-plot's faceplates with an enraged howl! The treacherous mech flips rearward and lands with a thud on his back then tries to scramble backwards to escape this raging force. The angered Autobot stalks forward, picking Quick-plot up off the ground by his chest armor, he sets him roughly to his pedes only to give him a punch square in the faceplates that sends him harshly back to the ground.

A cruel joy splashes across his spark as he causes the traitorous mech pain. He allows Quick-plot to regain his pedes before he lands a hard punch to the mech's gears at the same time extracting his claws, jabbing them into Quick-plot's stomach! Does he want to offline Quick-plot? Yes. He does. Hot Rod jerks his blades back out swiftly allowing the mech to fall to his knee plates as his furious snarl mingles with the traitor's pained scream.

"Stop!" Quick-plot yells, pleading desperately for his life as he sees the frightening, murderous white of the younger mech's optics. Hot Rod's frame vibrates with rage as he grabs the turncoat's neck cables digging his digits through the tender wiring causing the mech to gurgle in agony. Quick-plot's servos feebly grasp at his arms as he wheezes, "Please!"

_Pathetic._

"Hot Rod, release him!" Bulkhead bellows out the order and snaps Hot Rod back to his right state of processor.

The tri-colored mech looks around him to see all the Wreckers have their blasters trained on him. He drops Quick-plot, his spark pulsing, slightly aghast at his actions, but easily keeping it hidden. Quick-plot grasps his throat cables sputtering and coughing roughly at the relief of his free airways. Hot Rod steps away from the mech who is now trying to staunch the flow of energon flowing from his gears with his optics distant.

"Why were you meeting the Decepticons?" Bulkhead tries again to question the injured mech.

"Like I'd tell you slaggers!" Quick-plot spits energon from his mouthplates onto the ground at their pedes. "Go to the Pit!"

The fingers of the terrible anger grasp Hot Rod tightly and he attacks. This fragger will regret being sparked! Hot Rod grabs the Forge out of Wheeljack's servos as he storms passed and swings it at Quick-plot! The hammer makes contact with the mech's chest and sends him airborne to land cruelly on his backstruts several hundred feet away. Hot Rod throws the hammer down and charges at Quick-plot, he lunges onto his downed opponent like a crazed cyber-cat, delivering blow after crushing blow to the mech's top frame!

Who's fault is it all? Quick-plot. His capture? Quick-plot. His torture? Quick-plot. The loss of his father? Quick-plot. Who made Megatron's scheme possible with his own greed for power? Quick-plot. Hot Rod can't stop. He can't think.

Rage is a funny thing. Once you give in, there's no stopping it.

* * *

Elita1 sits as patiently as possible in the communications and bridging hanger, waiting for Hot Rod to comm base and ask for a bridge back. She vents as she looks around the crowed hanger, it was not the best idea to practically announce to the whole base that Hot Rod is returning from his first official mission, and that it was a big success, for now the communications and bridging unit is overrun with mechs, femmes, and younglings all who adored Hot Rod and wanted to congratulate him. She could tell Optimus is on the verge of telling everyone to go back to their work as her mate vents as well.

"Next time ask him to report over your private comm links." Elita says jokingly to him with a slight laugh. Her mate looks down at her with a small smile and Elita finds herself praying to Primus that he didn't regret bonding to her. He could have literally had any femme he wanted! Optimus gazes softly into her optics as he lifts a large servo to brush it lovingly down her cheek plate in reassurance of his adoration. Giggles erupt from a group of young femmes nearby, causing Optimus to drop his servo back to his side instantly and his cooling systems to run loudly in his embarrassment. He never will be completely comfortable with even the smallest gestures of affection in public. Elita smiles up at him before she simply walks away to where her sisters are chatting.

"I don't know how!" Arcee is whispering to Chromia.

"You can always ask Springer to mention it," Chromia says mildly.

Elita is about to ask if they are discussing Arcee's crush on a certain tri-colored mech when the public comm flares to life.

: Bridge, now! : Underhand's vocals shout with urgency that sends the bridging officers into a flurry of movement. They lock expertly onto his coordinate and send the immediate means of transportation. The scarlet mech lumbers through instantly lugging the Forge of Solus Prime with him, followed by Impactor and Twintwist. Elita feels a wave of pride wash over her toward the young mech who used to be under her command at Metropolis.

"Prowl, clear the room!" Underhand shouts to the head tactician. Prowl, Sonic-blaster, and Twintwist quickly send everyone out the door ignoring the fact that a junior officer had just commanded them to do something. "Prime, where is Ratchet?" the scarlet mech asks Optimus.

"In Med Bay," the Prime answers calmly.

"Get him here immediately!"

Elita shares a worried look with Chromia. Something must have gone wrong with the mission and one of the bots are seriously injured. That would explain why Underhand wanted the room cleared. He didn't think the young trainee bots of the base should have to see the horrors of war just yet. The pink commander's spark clenches. Who is injured? She didn't personally know any of the Wreckers but it still hurt her to think that someone is in pain. What if it is Hot Rod? The poor mechling, he has been through so much already.

"No! Prowl, I'm not leaving!" Springer is yelling as Prowl tries to herd him out of the room, "If it's Hot Rod I need to be here for him!"

Prowl looks into the light green mech's face plates before he nods. "We will discuss your lack of respect later." Prowl says stiffly. Springer lowers his helm and nods submissively. "But I will allow you to stay," at this statement the younger mech smiles gratefully up at his superior officer.

"Please, allow me to stay as well?" Arcee asks meekly. Prowl glances over at Elita, who gives a slight nod as her consent. If it is Hot Rod he will want his two best friends beside him.

Ratchet comes bursting through the hanger's doors just as Roadbuster soars through the ground bridge. The Wrecker flips several times before he stops on his servos and pedes. He wipes the small trickle of energon trailing from his mouth with a pissed off smile before he charges back through the porthole.

What is going on? Elita feels the need to jump up and run to the aid of her fellow Autobots but somehow manages to stay put. Nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ tick by slowly allowing everyone's anxiety to build. Are the Wreckers engaging with Decepticons? If so are they winning? If they lose they can't leave the ground bridge open inviting the Decepticons in for a chat!

Elita is on the verge of calling to the big, green, levelheaded Wrecker, Bulkhead, over the comm to see what is transpiring when Roadbuster, Topspin, Leadfoot, Rotorstorm and Hot Rod comes toppling through the bridge. All five mechs stumble and fall as they struggle with holding Hot Rod captive.

Wait, what?!

Hot Rod snarls viciously at the mechs clinging onto him as he tosses Topspin across the room. The blue Wrecker slams into the wall, luckily missing their bridging and communication tech. Elita watches in horror as Topspin scrambles from the floor and leaps onto Hot Rod's back followed by Impactor and Underhand.

"Ratchet! Sedate him!" Prowl yells to Ratchet, who immediately lunges into the action with a tranquilizer he always carries in his subspace ready for use. The C.M.O. stabs the needle into the demented mech's upper arm and Hot Rod turns with a squall angrily. He shoves the medic away from him breaking the needle off in his arm.

"Hold him!" Ratchet yodels as he fixes his sedative with a new needle and leaps into the fray. The is a wild flash of metal in all colors before Ratchet jumps clear holding an empty syringe. Hot Rod's infuriated bellows slow and he teeters back onto his heel struts before crumpling to the floor landing onto Topspin, who moans under the weight.

"Get 'im off!" the blue Wrecker grunts as his arms flail from beneath the current object of his entrapment.

Optimus and Ultra Magnus go quickly to their brother's side and Springer tries to follow but is stopped by Optimus' sharp command. "Remain where you are!" Optimus looks between the two frightened younglings and takes assessment of Springer's shocked face and Arcee's developing tears. "Remove the femme from the room," he commands to Springer knowing it will be the only way he will get the younger mech to leave as well. They shouldn't have to see their friend in this alarming state.

Springer immediately obeys the Prime's command and he gently leads the dark blue femme, who is on the brink of sobbing, out of the room.

Elita's vents are coming harsh and labored as she stares at what is left of the action before her. What happened? Why was Hot Rod on the verge of going completely insane? Where is Bulkhead, Pyro, Whirl, and Wheeljack?

"What happened?" Sonic-blaster asks, not even trying to hide the horror on his faceplates.

"We will have to discuss that later," Leadfoot says gruffly as he and Roadbuster pull Topspin from under Hot Rod, "Ratchet, it's Quick-plot, we can't move him. He badly beaten and if we do he'll leak out every fluid in his sorry frame and be deactivated within a klik _(1.2 earth minutes)_."

Ratchet nods grimly before he charges through the ground bridge. A few nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ later the medic twins, Code Blue and Flat Line, comes sprinting into the hanger and through the porthole as well, both juggling medical supplies. It would have been a funny sight if the circumstances where different.

"Prowl, Sonic-blaster, take Hot Rod to the brig," Optimus orders and the two mechs quickly step in and drag the sedated mech away. "Go to the med bay and get your injuries treated," the Prime commands to the Wreckers. The bots look at the bridge for a minute longer, with a hint of worry for their comrades before they turn and leave the room.

Nothing could have prepared the bots that remained waiting in the hanger for what came through the bridge next. Through the bustle of the three medics' movements Elita catches sight of a badly beaten mech that in no way resembled Quick-plot any longer. His chest plates are twisted and sparking with energon leaking from every crack, his haggard venting suggests collapsed vents. Three holes in his chassis stare at her and taunt her with the truth that she doesn't want to believe. His gears spark and illuminate his fractured faceplates as the medics rush him passed and to the Med Bay.

Hot Rod did this?!

Elita exchanges a shocked look with Chromia, and she also catches the confused appearance on Ultra Magnus' faceplates along with the grim one on Optimus'. There has to be something wrong with him! There is no way that he would do something like this without a reason... is there? Elita recalls the expressions playing on the young mech's face as he battled against his own friends as they crashed through the ground bridge. Anger, hate, and revenge could easily be deciphered, but it is the underlying emotions that causes the pink commander to wonder how they could have allowed Hot Rod to fall in such an abyss of grief and fear. She saw panic, mistrust, and torment.

They had allowed Hot Rod to fool them into thinking he was fine, he always said so... When in the truth he was slowly fading from them. Why hadn't she noticed this before?! She has been here for a little over three deca cycles_ (months?)_, she should have! He covered it up so well with his arrogant and jovial attitude. The pink femme wants to curse herself. Hot Rod's pent up emotions has finally turned him into a monster of hatred to fear, swallowing him, and he might be too far gone to bring him back.

* * *

_Leave me your thoughts, likes, and dislikes in a review. I like to know how I'm doing. :)_


	7. Chapter 6

_I am not dead, nor have I been injured in any way, I have just been horribly busy here lately and I couldn't find the time to update. I apologize a million times if there is anyone who was looking forward to my updates and was disappointed. I have failed you. :( This story will be momentarily put on hold as I clean up my hectic life and tie up loose ends here and there. (Don't worry, I will be back!)_

_On a brighter note, here is chapter six. You get fluff, angst, and feel-good all in one. So enjoy. :)_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

* * *

Galvatron sorely repositions himself on the berth so he can keep an optic on his injured femme creation. His optics focus on her. Only her. He doesn't let his vision travel to what is beyond her, but the outline taunts him all the same. Even though he isn't looking, he can see the lifeless form of Extractor.

In just a few short nano-kliks_ (1 nano-klik=1 earth second)_ his son's spark had been snuffed, his daughter possibly fatally injured and he has been slagged to the pit. By the same fragging Autobot! Galvatron hisses under his vents as a wave of pain crawls through his spark at the absence of Extractor's presence. He forces his attention on the visual recording of the Autobot that caused all of this. It only takes a split astro-second_ (1/2 earth sec.)_ for him to realize what he hadn't before.

That mech! He is the mechling that Megatron had kidnapped! Galvatron sits up as he plays through the memory files of the now full grown mechling. Every move that the Autobot made shows mercilessness. Galvatron's optics narrow as he accesses the memory of the mech's vocals hissing cruelly in his audio. 'Personal is not good for business.' Galvatron recognizes those words, he had uttered them himself a few vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ ago when looking down at the tortured frame of that tri-colored hellion.

He knew from the start that Megatron's plot had been stupid idea! Why hadn't he just listened to his gears then and just blasted the pitiful looking creature? It would have been better than this... allowing that revenge-filled monster to live and release his wrath on Galvatron's own creations.

Heavy pede-falls draw Galvatron out of his thoughts and his optics go swiftly to the source. It is Megatron. The smaller warlord's Second in Command, Nighthawk, is only a few short steps behind.

A scowl cuts into Galvatron's faceplates as Megatron takes quiet assessment of the damages on his mainframe before he raises an optic ridge, amused. Anger courses through the larger and he wonders just how fast he could rip Megatron's helm from his shoulders before Nighthawk could reach him. With all of his wounds, courtesy of that Autobot, not fast enough. He settles for scalding his smaller counterpart with a glare before demanding, "What do you want?" Megatron doesn't answer and only smiles slightly. The smirk nearly cracks Galvatron and he has to struggle to keep from reaching out to strangulate that self-satisfied son of a glitch. Instead he snarls with a quick glower shot at Nighthawk, "If you've only come to gawk at my losses, Megatron, then I will rip your spark out and feed it to my cyber-wolves."

Megatron sneers and, instead of answering the injured mech's question, he walks to Blitzer's berth, his optics scanning her swiftly. He almost looks impressed as he says, "You have a strong fembot creation. She will indeed make a fine leader some cycle_ (day)_." Galvatron only watches Megatron with cold optics as he turns to meet his gaze. "To bad mine was a weakened, little runt," Megatron says with his vocals inflectionless before continuing, "In the reports it is said that one mech did this?" It is a half question, half statement.

Galvatron only nods in response.

A hum escapes Megatron's lip plates as he glances at Extractor. He wisely remains silent as his optics scan the damage done to the offlined mech. He turns swiftly with his optic ridge narrowed severely, "It appears Optimus is stepping up his game… he no longer has a qualm of snuffing an entire family."

"Optimus Prime did not do this," Galvatron growls dangerously.

Megatron looks half believing as he turns his gaze to the injured leader. A huff of air leaves his vents in a half laugh and a smile threatens the corner of his serrated mouthplates. "Enlighten me," he says with raised optic ridges.

"It was Hot Rod," Galvatron snaps, his patience wearing thin.

Megatron doesn't even try to hide his surprise and his unbelieving laugh sounds throughout the Med Bay, "Hot Rod did this?" Megatron points vaguely around in a gesture to the three of them. Another laugh bites through the space between them, "That is interesting... It appears the weakling did some growing up since the last time we met."

Galvatron scowls at his equal. He had always disagreed with how his creations worked for both Decepticon bases, Kaon and Darkmount, doing all the dangerous or under the radar missions. This particular mission was assigned to them by Megatron himself. Galvatron slides off his berth and stalks toward the smaller warlord. Nighthawk stiffens at his approach and moves closer to Megatron, ready to come to his master's aid if Galvatron's intentions are hostile.

"What was their mission?" Galvatron asks, keeping his vocals level to disarm Nighthawk. The ploy does nothing to ease the smaller aerial mech.

"They were secretly meeting one of my spies who had acquired the Forge of Solus Prime," Megatron answers nonchalantly, "Lazerbeak has yet to return and report to Soundwave of the current whereabouts of said spy and artifact."

"My son offlined retrieving a relic you can't even use," Galvatron's vocals remains detached, but his faceplates betray his furious emotions. His fists shake at his side and Nighthawk purposely steps closer to the larger of the two warlords with a warning glimmering in his gaze.

Megatron looks upon his counterpart with ridicule shining clearly in his red optics and he asks with dramatized exasperation, "Did I not warn you about the stupidity of bonds? I take advantage of my enemies bonds so many times. It makes them weak. It makes them venerable. Yet... here you are... insisting on having bonds of your own." Megatron looks at him like he is an uneducated drone, "What is keeping your enemies from taking advantage of your bonds? Hmm?" Galvatron doesn't reply so he answers his own question, "Nothing. Your lack of respect for what some of the Autobots are prepared to do nearly cost you your own spark this cycle _(day)._ It is pathetic. Detach yourself, and become a real Decepticon leader," Megatron says with a saw toothed smile carving into his faceplates. His smile grows to a width that makes him look insane, "I would tell you that I'm sorry for your loss, Galvatron, but I'm not, because in the end it will make you stronger!"

Galvatron scowls at Megatron, his servos clenched angrily at his side, knowing his equal is right.

"Now," Megatron states as he moves toward the Med Bay exit, "if you are well enough I have a matter to discuss with you in private."

Galvatron's scowl deepens, but he follows the smaller mech with a slight limp to his step only pausing to glance once and his half lucid femme creation. His optics harden slightly and he haltingly walks through the door with Nighthawk trailing behind him. It hisses shut slowly at first, then closes with a finalizing slam, leaving Blitzer alone with the offlined frame of Extractor.

* * *

Nighthawk follows behind the two leaders who are silent as offlined mechs as they walk. A private comm link request from Deadlock is pending in his internal communications system and he accepts it without slowing his pace or changing his expression. : We're leaving the Med Bay, : he says quickly into the link.

: Is it clear? :

Megatron turns the corner and motions for Galvatron and Nighthawks to follow him into the Communication Hanger. As soon as the door slams shut and seals them into the room Nighthawk sends, : It's clear. :

* * *

Across the base Deadlock looks down at the tiny youngling sitting on the berth in his private quarters. The little femmling never quits asking questions and it is driving him slowly to insanity.

"Why do we have to wait here?" She asks and then, "When can we go see my Carrier? Is it time yet? Why is your optic moving so funny?"

Deadlock hisses in annoyance at Tempestfire before his comm lines buzz to life and Nighthawk's vocals sound in his audios, : We're leaving the Med Bay. :

: Is it clear? : He asks swiftly.

A few long moments pass before Nighthawk replies, :It's clear :

Without wasting any more time, Deadlock quickly empties his right subspace of its weapons to make room for the little femlet ignoring the one hundred and one questions she askes in that period of time. He doesn't like carrying her this way, its dangerous, not to mention a disadvantage if he would happen to need his weapons quickly, but with Megatron roaming the base there is no way he can chance the warlord seeing her and finishing what he had threatened to do when she was a newborn sparkling.

If it weren't for Blitzer the little femmeling would be in the Well with her along with her true Carrier.

Maybe that would have been a mercy.

Deadlock holds his arm with the empty subspace down to the femmling and commands roughly, "Hop in." Tempestfire stares up at him with spirit igniting in her ruby red optics. She folds her little arms and stands a little taller, defiantly refusing to do as he commanded. Deadlock's optic narrow in impatience, "Fine," he says and strides for the door, "I guess I'll just go tell your Carrier you don't want to see her."

"No!" Tempestfire screeches desperately, stopping the white and yellow mech in his tracks. Deadlock smirks in triumph at as he walks back to the berth and places his arm in front of her again. She willingly leaps in and curls up even though she would have plenty of room to stretch out.

"It stinks in here," she complains as he moves to close the subspace.

Deadlock growls at her and grates out, "Not another word out of you until we reach the Med bay or I'll rip out your vocalizer."

She glares up at him, "Why would you do that?" She is ignored so she keeps trying, "Would it hurt?...Are you mad?...Where's my Mom?..."

Deadlock feels his optic beginning to twitch again. "I mean it, femmling," he warns pointing the first finger digit of his free servo at her.

"Why are you carrying me like this?...Why does your paint make you look like a cloud that was lubricated on? Why-" Deadlock snaps his subspace close in her faceplates with a growl, muting her questions to undetectable mumbling. A vent of relief escapes him as he enjoys the semi-silence before heading out the door. The femmling finally quits trying to talk and the mech walks down the hall in the glorious quiet.

Oddly enough, the silence weighs down on his audio receptors louder than the little femmling's nonstop questions ever did and the Decepticon finds himself feeling slightly guilty that he had spoken so roughly to her. Deadlock scoffs mentally at his sentiments. Since when does he care that he spoke too roughly to the annoying little scraplet, or to anyone for that matter?

He knows when, he realizes. It began when he had befriended Blitzer when she was just a youngling. Her behavior is what had got him. Where Extractor was cruel and harsh, she was kind and caring. It always made him feel like a glitch if he spoke roughly to her, and after some time he had acquired a cursed protectiveness for Blitzer. When Tempestfire came along and Blitzer took her as her own his protectiveness grew, encompassing the youngling as well as her adopted Carrier. The two femmes are the only bots that Deadlock's ever given a slag about in his life. Nighthawk is an exception, but the large black mech can take care of himself, so he doesn't count.

In a way, Deadlock has found a family unit. A dysfunctional one, but a family nonetheless. They are the type of bots that he would willingly fight beside, or for. A scowl creases his feature as he thinks on the Wreckers and their brutish leader who hurt Blitzer, and on Megatron, who would offline Tempestfire if given half a chance. Frag them all.

Deadlock swiftly checks to makes sure that no one is around before he cracks opens his subspace to peer one optic in at the femmling. She stares back with wide ruby optics and a small snoot on her lip components, clearly expecting some sort of snarky comment. Deadlock hesitates slightly before he says softly, "I'm sorry, Tempest."

A smile lights up her faceplates. "I love you, Lock," she whispers as quietly as she can.

Deadlock blinks at the blindsided hit. Love? He is a Decepticon. Love is a vulnerability, love is a blaring sign saying, 'here is my weak spot! Come use it against me!' Who taught Tempestfire such a potentially dangerous emotion? Deadlock knows who. Blitzer. Blitzer would have, because Blitzer knows the risk but would deem it worth it. Deadlock realizes that Tempestfire is watching him expectantly. What does she want him to say? I love you? Well, he doesn't. Does he?

"You're supposed to say it back Lock," she says, confirming his worst fears. Her optic ridges raise and she cocks her helm to the side at his hesitation. He can't disappoint her.

"Love you too, kiddo," the words feel foreign to him, but real. Megatron and Galvatron would say he is weak, pit, he knows that he is, but at least he is no longer empty.

* * *

Elita enters the brig with two energon cubes in servo, stopping in front of Hot Rod's holding cell. She peers through the bars at the young mech inside. He is sitting on his berth with his right leg propped up and his elbow resting on his knee, his other leg dangles off the side of the berth and swings in a lax manner. His electric blue optics are trained on her and slowly a charming smile graces his handsome faceplates.

"Why is my brother's beautiful mate coming to see me?" he asks heartily as he leans forward on his berth.

Elita smiles almost sadly at him and holds up one of her energon cubes in answer to his question.

She can see what he is doing. His everything-is-fine façade is back in place as if nothing ever happened... but it did. What happened out on the field, what Hot Rod did to Quick-plot in his rage, and the very thought of the mech laying in Ratchet's Med Bay on the brink of losing his spark silences whatever part of her wants to believe the young mech before her.

Quick-plot has been in stasis for two and a half cycles _(days)_ now under Ratchet's close supervision and the medic is still not sure whether the mech will pull through or not. He was literally on the precipice of deactivation when the Wreckers had requested the ground bridge. If they had waited a moment longer Quick-plot would've been only a husk.

Not that many would have cared.

Hot Rod jumps off his berth lightly, interrupting her inward thoughts, and walks to the edge of his cell. He reaches through the bars and takes the cube the pink commander presents to him.

"Thanks!" he says with a bright smile, then looks questioningly to the second cube in her servos. Elita merely gestures to the guard on duty. She moves off to deliver the cube and by the time she returns to Hot Rod's cell the mech is finishing off the remnants of his energon cube. He hands the empty container back to her and she takes it silently as she searches his faceplates for any of the emotions she had seen the few cycles _(days)_ before. Hot Rod cocks his helm playfully at her and then teases, "The first visitor I get in nearly a whole solar cycle_ (1 earth day)_ and she doesn't say a word."

The jest finally knocks Elita out of her silent stupor.

"Are you alright?" she manages to ask finding it highly ironic that Optimus had asked exactly the same question soon after the Metropolian Massacre. She would have never admitted it then but the inquiry had done wonders for her, she had been shocked that he would care but she had unmistakably seen the concern clear in his optics. It had been the beginning of the healing process. She hopes it will do the same for the young mech in the cell now.

Hot Rod glances at the brig floor, his faceplates thoughtful and almost serious for a moment. "Now that you mention it," the tri-colored mech says rubbing his chestplates with his facial features stern, "it hurts right here. That slagging femme was a good shot." His mouth plates widen cheekily with a joking smile and then he pouts playfully, "Kiss it better?"

Before the femme can retaliate with a snarky remark her mate and Ultra Magnus enters the brig. They stop each on different sides of her and look at their brother. Both look slightly concerned.

"Hey Optimus," Hot Rod greets leisurely. He leans heavily on the bars of his cell and grins at them with his faceplates forced as far through the bars as they will fit, "So when am I getting out?"

Both of the older brothers exchange a confused glance, obviously expecting to find the same livid bot from before that clearly had problems. All they see is the normal, cocksure Hot Rod.

"In a joor _(6.5 earth hours)_," Optimus answers the young mech's lingering question.

"It's about slagging time!" Hot Rod exclaims loudly. He stops his celebration short as he takes in Ultra Magnus' amused optics and narrows his own in annoyance, "Let me guess, then you want me to write some stupid, boring, long aft report about what happened after you've already read all the Wreckers' reports?" His faceplates darken when no one tries to correct him.

Ultra Magnus laughs uproariously at his brother's disgusted facial. "Dear brother," he says between snickers, "you have to write two reports. The mission report and the brig report." He ends his gloating with a smug smile at his baby brother's expense.

Hot Rod sends a scowl at the three bots standing outside of his cell before he slams his servo into the bar between them and bellows his frustration, "Fraggit!"

"Language," Ultra Magnus reprimands him easily with his smile growing.

"So is that what you came here for?" Hot Rod asks with a growl pointed at Ultra Magnus, "To gloat that I have a joor _(6.5 earth hours)_ left in this cesspit and two slagging large reports to write?"

"Language," Magnus says again and Hot Rod scalds him with a glare.

"No," Optimus answers gently, "we've come to discuss the reasons for your actions concerning Quick-plot."

Hot Rod raises his optic ridge in a silent gesture to go on.

"In the Wreckers' reports it said that Quick-plot surrendered and was willing to be brought in," Elita says her tone clipped and professional, "yet you proceeded to treat the mech as a fully armed hostile, thus nearly ending his spark... Every report read the same so we are inclined to believe it. We are Autobots, Hot Rod. Any prisoner captured is to be treated fairly and mercifully."

Hot Rod's arms fold defensively and his optic narrow.

Elita frowns at his stance and prepares for Hot Rod's typical rudeness as she asks, "Do you have any explanation to justify your actions?"

"If anyone in this room can say that they never lost it toward a Decepticon prisoner, then I can rightly say your question is… 'justified'," Hot Rod answers the femme commander with a smirk. He looks between the three bots outside his cell and waits for a reply. None comes. His left optic ridge raises and his lip components purse at their lack of words. He turns on his heel and walks back to his berth, with a self-satisfied laugh, he flops back onto it, "That's what I thought."

The three Autobot commanders exchange a glance before they turn and walk out of the brig.

"It was nice seeing you too!" the mech in the cell yells sarcastically to their retreating backs. None of them acknowledge him. "I'll see you soon!" His vocals echoes out through the halls after the bots.

The brig door slams shut and Elita turns immediately to Optimus, a weary vent escaping her, "It's worse than I previously imagined."

"Are you kidding me?" Ultra Magnus asks with a relieved laugh, "He's the same mech he's always been. A little too arrogant for my liking but there's not a thing wrong with him."

Elita stares at the large mech with unbelieving optics. Is Ultra Magnus serious? She turns her gaze on her mate to see his thoughts on the situation. Optimus looks between the mech and femme before him thoughtfully, but it is clear he has no intentions on revealing his processings, so Elita turns back to Ultra Magnus.

"It is a mask, Magnus," she says gently, trying to persuade the large mech to see what she does, "he's hiding behind it."

"He is fine Elita," Ultra Magnus repeats, "Just wait until he gets out. You'll see. He'll be an aft as per the usual." He lays a servo on Elita's shoulder armor and gives her a reassuring smile. "I'll see you two later," he says, biding his companions good-bye and then walking down the hall purposefully.

"Optimus," Elita turns her gaze to her mate, "you have to see something is amiss!" Her vocals are slightly pleading, wishing for her sparkmate to see her point.

"I do see Magnus' point. Hot Rod is acting normal," Optimus says looking into her optics.

"But what if normal has always been a façade?" she questions in exasperation. Her pink servo gestures toward the brig door, "I wouldn't be able to tell you exactly what started it or what triggered it now, but it's clear, Optimus. We're losing him. He's toeing the line and soon he's going to cross it and you won't be able to get him back." She doesn't break their locked gaze and reaches for her bond mate's huge servo with her tone soft, "Optimus, by the actions your father took in his last cycles _(days),_ we both know losing him is not an option."

Optimus looks over his sparkmate's distraught features in slight confusion; something has been off with her lately.

"Elita," the red and blue mech's deep baritone vocals stops her ranting and she looks up at him with tears pooling in her optics, "are you feeling alright?"

Elita's tears disappear almost instantly and anger flashes across her petite faceplates and she hisses at him with a scowl on her lips, "Don't change the subject, Prime!"

"I'm sorry," he says softly, wanting to gather her in his arms and take away whatever is causing her so much distress, "I'm just concerned about you."

"And I'm concerned about Hot Rod!" she yells angrily but her hot tears are returning to her haggard features. Now he is adamant, it isn't just Hot Rod that has her acting so bizarre.

"Lita, go and see Ratchet, please?" Optimus asks his worry doubling.

"No! I will not!"

"Elita1, as your Prime I am ordering you to go see your physician," Optimus commands leaving no room for argument. He hates pulling rank on her, but this time it is for her own good.

"Ugh!" the pink commander bellows her frustration and anger as she stalks away. Her armor plating is puffed up and her fists are clenching weirdly, as if ready to tear into something. She turns back and points an infuriated digit toward her mate, who stands completely still with no emotions on his facial features to betray his feelings. "You are the biggest pain in my aft!" she yells indignantly. With that she turns again and stalks toward Med Bay muttering under her vents.

Optimus shakes his helm and almost lets a smile appear on his lip plates. He really feels sorry for Ratchet right now, having to deal with his just recently volatile, emotional, and impulsive sparkmate.

* * *

Elita vents harshly, fighting off a wave of tears threatening to spill. What is wrong with her? Lately she has been so emotionally unstable, crying over the smallest things, getting angry at nothing! She enters Med Bay with stomping pede falls.

"Ratchet!" she calls roughly for the head medic. The C.M.O. peeks warily from behind a large scanner in the left corner of the front room at the femme's sharp tone.

"Ah yes, Optimus said you would be coming," he says as he approaches her.

"I trust he told you why as well," she mutters sarcastically. He nods and she ignores him, suddenly searching for something, "Ratchet do you have any energon in here? I feel like I'm running on fumes."

"Just Med grade," the medic replies.

The femme's optics widen and she looks like she is nearly purging her tanks. "No thanks," she manages, "just hurry up and do what you have to so I can go get some." Ratchet nods in indication that he heard her request and will do his best. As he carefully scans her armor for anything amiss Elita looks curiously around the Med Bay and sees the still form of a mech hooked to many machines and different IV drips. The rasping sound of a ventilator forcing a breath into the still form's vents reaches her audios tauntingly. She already knows who it is without moving any closer. "How is he doing?" she asks gesturing toward Quick-plot with her petite helm.

"Not the best," Ratchet replies as he meets her gaze, his optics showing his worry for his patient. He frowns as he scans her again, then he says, "I have just a few questions that you must answer before I proceed." He picks up his data pad and accesses the femme's medical file before he turns to the pink commander. "How do you recharge lunar cycles _(nights)_?"

"As well as I would in a base full of scraplets!" Elita snaps irritably. The medic nods nonchalantly as he taps a few notes into the femme's file.

"Do you often feel fatigued?" the yellow and green mech asks.

"I just told you I can't recharge! What do you think?!" she growls with her optics flashing.

"Uh-uh," Ratchet mutters to himself as he adds more notes. He glances up at her, "How is your emotional core?"

The femme opens her mouthplates to say something else sassy, but stops herself. Instead she simply says, "Unstable."

"And your fuel intake?"

"Almost doubled," she answers in a phrase to stop herself from being as touchy as a berserk cyber-cat.

"Stand still," the medic orders and scans her more deeply and looks at the readings. The physician's optic ridge raises and a smile finds its way to his faceplates as he stares at his scanner, his spark swells up with happiness and sheer joy. He turns to the cranky femme sitting on the berth with his smile becoming a grin, he grabs both her arms. "Elita," he says to the confused femme, "you're expecting."

* * *

Prowl walks down the hall, keeping his processor locked to his work. The sound of heavy pedefalls forces him to glance up from his data pad to see Ironhide coming toward him with the little yellow sparkling in his arms. Instantly, Prowl feels his emotional core flare at the sight of the tiny mechling.

She's gone. Firefly is gone.

Slowly the Praxian's pedes fail to keep moving and he comes to a stop, still staring at the sparkling Ironhide is holding. He failed her. He is a failure. He neglected to keep safe the only thing that mattered to him and now the sparkling will grow up without a mother. He failed to keep Firefly and her son safe. He suddenly wishes all those vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ ago when Firefly was choosing between him and his Decepticon brother, Barricade, that she would have chosen his brother. Then she would still be online. He could have loved her from a distance. Just as long as she was safe, and-

"Prowl," Ironhide's gruff greeting snaps him back to reality and the Praxian reins his emotions back in check. "I need assistance at the Target Range." Prowl looks at the weapon specialist questioningly. "I'm teaching a rookie group of femme's," Ironhide says and shrugs his shoulders as if it is obvious, "I may need backup."

Prowl nods without words and falls into step with the larger mech. He glances at the cooing baby bot in the black mech's arms and asks without thought, "Is it wise to bring the sparkling?"

Ironhide looks down at the yellow mechling and shrugs. "I'll put him in a corner with a toy," he says, "he'll be fine."

As they enter the Target Range Prowl bites back a groan. He should have known the reason Ironhide wanted assistance. There are five femmelings in this class, all just learning their way around weapons. Great.

Steelstar, a dark blue femme with a short petite frame, who always hangs around Wheeljack's lab because she loved the explosions. Steelstar will, no doubt, make a fine warrior when fully grown for she was a pistol when provoked. Some had to find out the hard way.

Electra, a red and black femme with split doorwings on her back, who stands a head taller than Steelstar. She is the younger sister unit of trainee medic, Jolt. She is a graceful and charming femme with the tendency to wear her spark on her shoulder armor, as Jazz puts it.

A silver femme with light blue highlights stands beside Electra, only slightly smaller, designation Sparkler. Like Electra, she is a sweet natured femme that is sensitive, and caring.

The real reason Ironhide wanted 'backup' though, is painfully obvious now. Standing with the other femmelings is the troublesome, split-spark twins, Firecracker and Torpedo. Both femmes are by far the smallest of the class. Torpedo's frame is an electric blue with brilliant white highlights. Her spunky attitude puts off many and her snarky comments have drilled under the armor of more than one mech on the base. Her sister unit, Firecracker is an orange, hot headed femmeling with even more wild and unruly moments. The more dirt and scratches Firecracker can acquire, the happier she is. It is no secret that they both idolize Ironhide... so he has no one to blame but himself for creating those two little monsters.

They are the only split-spark twins on the planet, as far as everyone knows.

Prowl steels himself as the femmlings spot he and their trainer and immediately begin jabbering at them. He hears Torpedo mouth off, saying, "Aww, Ironhide! Why'd you bring party-slagger with you?"

_Party-slagger_. That would be a reference to Prowl, no doubt.

Ironhide just snorts to himself and carries the little sparkling to a safe corner. He hands the little mechling an old, unloaded energon blaster before turning back to the femmelings, "I brought Prowl to give you pointers on accuracy."

_Liar_, Prowl inwardly accuses. Ironhide is a better shot than he is. Prowl glances back at the sparkling who is wacking the empty blaster in front of him in complete glee. The blaster was obviously made for a small-built bot, but it is still bigger than the baby mech. It largeness does nothing to deter the mechlet as he giggles happily, struggling to lift his plaything. The sparkling's optics find Prowl's. Tiny servos reach for him and a precious grin splashes across the sparkling's faceplates. Prowl swiftly looks away as a sudden pain scorches across his spark at the sight. The sparkling has _her_ optics.

Prowl's optics find the group of femmelings as Ironhide gives them the rundown of how to hold their guns and he focuses on them harshly to erase the mechling's haunting orbs from his processor. The sparkling giggles from behind him and Prowl feels his core heat with internal agony as his spark fervently misses its perfect match.

Firefly.

Prowl's armor trembles slightly and his optic shutter as he struggles to gain control. The image of her deactivated husk burns into the back of his closed optics and he forces them open to rid himself of it. He can't escape it. Its always there. When he recharges. When he walks through the base sometimes he could swear on his spark her heard her laugh, but when he turns she's never there.

"Prowl?" It is Ironhide.

Prowl's optics snap to the weapons specialist's and he raises his optic ridges in question.

"Care to lecture the femmelings on firearm protocols and safety?" Ironhide asks.

Firecracker groans, "Oh, come on, Hide! Can't we just shoot already?!"

There is a chorus of agreement behind the small, yellowish-orange femme to which Ironhide only smirks and says, "Sorry, rules are rules, Firecracker. If you don't learn safety you can't learn the rest of it."

Prowl steps forward stiffly and takes the blaster that Ironhide was demonstrating with and launches into the regulations and safety precautions without thought to the groans of the femmelings. He recites every word bluntly then starts into the proper loading and unloading of a blaster, which he exhibits with quick precision. Ironhide doesn't make a move to take over again so he continues on to the correct stance of holding one's weapon. Without thought, he tells them how to up the power and then moves on to how to judge the distance by using angles, trajectory, atmospheric density, wind speeds, and other variables. He powers the training blaster up and fires at a solid, obsolete target on the other side of the firing range. It shatters with the power of the blast and Prowl wordlessly hands the weapon back to Ironhide.

"Thank you Prowl," Ironhide says, "Now all they have to do is shoot." The femmelings pump their fists into the air victoriously and Ironhide glances at Prowl, "If you keep that up, they're going to put you in charge of the training."

"Doubtful," Prowl replies as he watches the femmelings shoulder their firearms and wait with excited optics on their hero, Ironhide, to turn back and see their stances. Half of them are wrong. Ironhide doesn't seem to care.

"Alright, are you ready to slag some Cons?" Ironhide asks as he switches the newer, holographic targets online. Torpedo hoots and Firecracker howls in reply. The shape of several known Decepticons materialize on the range and Sparkler squeals with anticipation.

A smile ticks at the corner of Prowl's mouthplates at the femmes. As Ironhide is giving the final instructions Prowl turns to check on the sparkling, who had gone suspiciously quiet in the corner. The yellow thing is gone.

Gone?!

Prowl walks calmly to the empty corner and looks around for the baby bot. The only evidence of the sparkling's presence is the old blaster that still lays there. He couldn't have gone far, Prowl decides as he turns and leaves Ironhide there with the femmelings. He walks purposefully along the length of the target range outside of the containment force field and scans the outside area for the mischievous sparkling. Dimly he hears Ironhide telling his students to ready their weapons, instantaneously the sound of cannons priming reaches his audios.

In this moment Prowl spots him... The little sparkling tittles happily as he frolics unsteadily inside the containment force fields of the firing range... Prowl blinks... What the frag!? His spark twists as a tremendous fear grabs at him and Prowl lurches into action.

The large, still, holographic scene blares to life in the arena and Decepticons begin to come charging forward with computerized roars. The yellow mechlet, like a speck in the middle of the Ocean of Rust, stares up at the large holograms with fearful optics and a small whimper escapes his vocalizer.

Prowl races to the closest 'door' in the force field with panic rising in his throatpipes like poison! The shots coming from the youngling's practice cannons would do nothing but sting harshly on a full grown bot, but on a sparkling? He would be shredded! Upon reaching the break in the field Prowl punches in his security code frantically! The lock blinks green cheerily and beep to acknowledge his access.

As the invisible field 'door' drops Prowl hears Ironhide telling the femmes to give the Cons pit!

No! He will not fail Firefly again! He will keep her son safe! As he charges through the containment force field he pings Ironhide wildly on his comm. No answer... Slag! Prowl's optics are trained on the little yellow sparkling as he sprints across the range! A volley of shots rain past him and he dodges them the best he can.

There is a brief space between the screeches of the holographic Decepticons and Prowl desperately yells at Ironhide, "Ironhide!" Nothing. His vocals come out as a squall as he tries again, "Ironhide!"

One of the femmelings catches sight of him. It is Torpedo. She turns to her twin and yells above the shrieks of the 'deactivating' Decepticons, "Look! They've got a holograph of Prowl out there!"

Surely Ironhide will have heard that! Prowl's vents heave as he dashes toward the sparkling and tries to get the weapons specialist's attention at the same time with no avail. Ironhide is turned and is giving one of the femmelets, Sparkler, a helping servo, instructing her patiently in the ways of shooting.

Slaggit all!

"Let's shoot it!" Firecracker's delighted vocals reach Prowl's audios.

If at all possible, the situation has gotten worse. Shots spray across his frame instantly, hitting him in the doorwing, the chestplates, the hip, and the aft. The only shot that actually hurts is the one to his doorwing, but that quickly fades as Prowl hears the mechlet whine pitifully in fear.

The sparkling is looking wide opticked at the slowly dispersing Decepticons as the shots take them down. Fear shines through his round orbs. He takes off as fast as his little legs will carry him through the holographic Decepticon base of Kaon and then he sees Prowl. With a squeak he lurches toward Prowl. The H.T. skirts around 'Starscream' easily and dodges 'Megatron'. As he nears his target, Prowl dives for the mechling. He lands protectively on top of him on his elbow struts and knee plating, shielding him from the blasts with his main frame.

The whimpering mechling clings desperately to Prowl's chest armor squeezes his optics shut against the frightening noises around him. This is exactly what it sounded like when his Carrier left him! This nice, white mech won't leave him too, will he?

"Prowl, what are you doing?" Ironhide bellows from his station as he finally finishes giving Sparkler pointers and notices the tactician folded into a ball in the middle of the firing range. He turns quickly to the femmelets, "Hold your fire!"

The weapons specialist swiftly deactivates the holographic scene and leaps across the firing wall, running to the panting tactical bot. Prowl stands slowly with an unsure sparkling in his arms, doing his best to regain control of his anger.

As Ironhide nears, his optics lock onto the sparkling. Horror crosses the weapons specialist faceplates as he pieces the puzzle together why the calm and collected Prowl was out on the Target Range dodging shots. The sparkling had somehow gotten in the shooting arena! He could have been offlined!

"We are not suited to care for a sparkling," Prowl says finally, his vocals carefully void of emotions, "take him to the youth sector or I will." He hands the sparkling over to the black mech and walks away his doorwings held rigidly in his rage. Rage at his own incompetence and carelessness. The sparkling is the only thing he has left of _her_ and he nearly let him offline in a Target Range! The mechling must go to a youth sector so Prowl can finally have some peace of processor that the baby bot will remain safe and well taken care of by bots who actually know what they are doing. He can't spend the rest of his online cycles_ (days)_ afraid to turn the corner of the base for fear the sparkling will be there as a painful reminder that he will never see his mate or hold her in his arms again. He can't...

* * *

The sparkling watches the black and white tactician walking away and with a sad mew, he lays his helm on Ironhide's chest plating. He gently pats the black mech's armor and watches the white doorwinger until he disappears out of the shooting range doors. He left him. Moisture gathers in the mechling's optics and he clings even harder to the big black mech who's servos encompass him.

Ironhide slowly turns around to find all his students staring wide opticked at him in horror that they nearly offlined a sparkling. Electra appears to be near tears as a small servo covers her lip plates and Sparkler has liquid already running down her faceplates.

The mechlet begins sobbing in Ironhide's arms and the weapons specialist grimaces. He should probably go to Ratchet and make sure the poor sparkling is alright. That, and if he remains at the shooting range any longer he will have to comfort a bunch of bawling femmelings.

"Class dismissed," the black mech says gruffly with a wave of his servo. He turns swiftly and follows Prowl's previous path to exit the range.

* * *

_I hope you like it. If you like it, love it or despise it, review and let me know why. Reviews make me happy. They inspire me._

_If you feel like it you can take a swing at guessing what comes next. I try to reply to all reviews. (If you're logged in, of course.) If you are a guest and have no account, you can leave speculation anyway if you wish. :)_


	8. Chapter 7

_What's up everybody. I got all that slag sorted out and I'm back! Woot, woot! And while I am back, Momatron is going to keep me busy helping her, so I can't promise constant updates as I was doing on my first story, No Matter The Cost. I am sorry. But when I do get the chance I will update, so that's a small victory._

_Anyway. This chapter is a happy chapter (mostly) and possibly (if you get subtle jokes) a funny chapter. I hope you like it._

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

Ironhide feels an unruly anger building in his core. How could he be so careless?! If he would have been alone at the training hanger he would have surely reactivated the Target Range's hologram just so he could blow some 'Cons' away to appease his wrath. Ironhide scowls and holds the sparkling closer to his guilty spark and trudges slowly toward the Med Bay.

Prowl is right. The sparkling needs to go to a youth sector where he will be safe and protected and cared for. The scowl on Ironhide's lip components deepens, he never trusted youth sectors. Not since... Ironhide growls and shakes off the though before it can process. He could just keep the mechling. He could protect the mechling better than a youth sector could, right?

No. Ironhide stops himself. The sparkling needs playmates his own age and fembots who are coded to take care of sparklings to care for him, not warriors. He will take the mechlet to Ratchet for clearance and, with Ratchet's permission, he will take him to the orphanage the coming cycle_ (day)_.

With this decision, Ironhide walks a little faster toward the Med Bay. As he enters he catches a glimpse of Ratchet grabbing Elita in a happy embrace. He walks up to the pair with a raised optic ridge and clears his throat to catch their attention.

"Hide!" Elita exclaims happily. She leaps off the medical berth she was sitting on and launches herself into his arms with an ecstatic giggle. The weapons specialist somehow manages to hang on to the pink femme and juggle the yellow sparkling at the same time.

"Lita?" Ironhide asks in surprise, he glances at Ratchet over the fembot's helm and mouths silently 'what's this about?'

The medic only grins widely and Ironhide's suspicions raise. Now _that _smile was very odd!

"Can you meet me at the rec room in two breems_ (1 breem= 8.3 earth min.) _?" the pink commander asks hopefully. The black mech nods slowly causing the femme to beam happily at him. She runs for the door and shouts her thanks out behind her before dashing through the exit and disappearing in a simple flash of pink paint.

Ironhide watches her until she is out the door with his helm cocked in confusion. He glances at Ratchet and gestures after the femme, "Are you going to tell me what the pit that was about?"

"I'm sure she will tell you herself," the C.M.O. says with a sly smile.

"I'd really like to find out what's got the grouchiest slagger on the base grinning like an idibot," Ironhide replies with a slight tick of his lip plates.

Ratchet's smile turns into a glare, "Watch your glossa around the sparkling!" He gripes bad naturedly as he folds his arms, "By Primus, if his first word is a curse I'm going to rip your audios off your helm and weld them to your skidplating so you can hear me kicking your aft!"

Ironhide looks at the medic, highly amused at his choice of words.

Ratchet realizes the irony at the same time and scowls even more deeply before he asks roughly, "Now why are you here?" He turns as he asks and begins straightening some of his medical equipment without thought.

"Clearance to take the sparkling to the youth sector," Ironhide says evenly.

Ratchet pauses at his furious tidying and stares into the distance for some time before turning abruptly to perform a rapid scan on the mechling, who beeps in surprise at the tingling sensation running through his mainframe. The medic examines the readings silently before he mutters, "A little while longer, Ironhide."

"Didn't you clear him a few cycles_ (days)_ ago?" Ironhide asks with confusion seeping into his vocals.

"If you were just going to question my judgment why did you bring the mechling to me in the first place!?" Ratchet snaps at Ironhide with his servo inching toward a wrench laying placidly on the table of medical equipment. Ironhide holds his free servo up placidly and swiftly takes his leave of absence, the confusion still hanging over his helm.

* * *

Elita hurries as quickly as she possibly can down the halls without running. She has to find Optimus! She has to tell him the news!

She is with sparkling!

Her fists shake with excitement as she hurries toward her sparkmate's working quarters. He is probably there, board out of his processor.

When she reaches the office, she knocks lightly on the door. "Optimus?" she calls.

"Yes?" his baritone vocals practically sing to her in her processor through the doorway. She smiles, her spark bubbling with sheer happiness as she uses her pass code to grant her entrance. The sight of her mate sitting at his desk hunched over three data pads of information on Decepticon advancements, new prototype weapons, new recruits and the recently injured list brings a smile to her lip plates. She vents in contentment as she walks up behind him and wraps her arms around his neck from behind pressing her chest to his back and her cheek plate onto his.

"I love you," she whispers sweetly into his audios as she presses a kiss onto his ticklish neck plates. She almost laughs as she hears his vents catch and a small grunt erupt from his vocals. Encouraged she continues to shower kisses on him trailing slowly up his neck ending on his cheek plating. The mech turns his head to capture her lips with his.

"Elita," he finally says, his vocalizer husky, drawing back to look into her optics, "I cannot process with you doing that." She smiles at him innocently before she scoots his data pads to a corner of the desk and sits on it to face him. "Did you go see Ratchet?" he asks as he suddenly remembers his mate's behavior barely a joor_ (6.5 earth hrs.)_ ago when discussing Hot Rod.

Elita rolls her optics at him playfully. "Yes, I did, and I am fine," she answers reassuringly. She clears her throat nervously and looks down at her servos before she ventures to broach the subject that she wanted to talk to him about, "Optimus?"

He raises his optic ridge at her and gives her a rare grin, "Yes, Elita?"

"Um, how do you... How would you feel about having sparklings?" she asks looking up at him with worried optics. A look of panic flashes momentarily across the Prime's features before he gains control and looks at her in slight concern. Elita can feel her spark clench fearfully. What if Optimus doesn't want a sparkling?

"What brought this on?" he asks gently taking her servo in his. Elita shrugs and looks down once more with a little frown tugging at her lip componets. The blue and red mech softly places a servo under her chin and tips her helm up forcing her optics to meet his. He gives her a questioning raise of his optic ridge.

"Can you please answer my question?" Elita asks softly.

"Sparklings are Cybertron's future," Optimus says looking off at nothing in particular. "Is this about us possibly having a sparkling in the future?"

Elita's smile returns shyly, "No…yes…maybe?"

Optimus cradles her helm in his giant servos, "Elita, the answer is yes," he says looking into her optics. Elita feels her whole frame sag with relief and concealed anticipation. He wants a sparkling! She will tell him now. Her mouthplates open and her vocalizer's inner workings begin to articulate the words when... "I look forward to being a father," he continues, "but, now is not the time. I believe our first and foremost priority is to end this war, so our sparkling has a safe and happy life. Let's wait."

The pink commander feels like her spark is going to extinguish! _Let's wait?!_ She quickly nods her helm and fights back her tears. Oh Primus! What is she going to do now?! He doesn't want their sparkling right now!

Optimus looks at her worriedly at the emotions he feels coming through their bond. He feels her disappointment, her fear.

Elita offers him a semi-bright smile and presses a bittersweet kiss onto the top of his helm before whispering evenly into his audio, "I'm meeting Ironhide in the rec room soon, so… I'll see you this lunar cycle _(night)_. He nods in agreement as she slides easily off his desk and heads for the exit.

"Elita," her mate calls after her, she swiftly dries her gathering tears and turns brightly toward him. His faceplates soften and he says gently, "I love you too."

The pink femme forces a wide smile onto her faceplates, so wide that it hurts, until the door closes behind her and cuts off Optimus' view of her. Then her shoulders slump dejectedly and the wetness behind her optics spills out. _Let's wait_... With those words her spark was crushed into what felt like a billion shattered fragments.

There is a questioning tug on the bond that links her to Optimus and she realizes that he feels all of her negative emotions right now. Elita reassures him quickly that everything is fine and that she is just tired before she turns to the doors leading to the rec room. When she enters the rec room she barely notices how crowded it is as she expertly controls her emotions so Optimus doesn't feel her devastation over their bond. How could he not want their sparkling?

_Come on, Elita, he didn't say that!_ _No, but he did say let's wait, meaning he doesn't want one now._

She pushes her emotions down the best she can as she spots Ironhide at a corner table, but finds it extremely hard to keep them contained as she sees the sparkling sitting on the table in front of him. Her vents hitch slightly as she sits down with a smile.

"Hey," she greets, her vocals breaking slightly. Tears pool in her optics at the concerned look Ironhide gives her.

"Elita?" he asks worriedly his optic ridge furrowed.

"Optimus doesn't want a sparkling right now," she explains brokenly, her tears spilling over. Ironhide shifts uncomfortably in his seat with an oblivious sparkling between his servos.

"Did he say that?" the black mech asks uneasily.

"He said 'I believe our first and foremost priority is to end the war, so our sparkling has a safe and happy life. Let's wait'," she answers using her best Optimus tone. The weapons specialist shifts again in his seat.

"Well, if you ask me, Lita, I think that would be a smart move," Ironhide grumbles almost gently.

"I know, but, Hide. I'm expecting," she whispers tears still streaming. Ironhide's optics widen and a deep vent is pushed out of his systems as he absorbs what Elita has just revealed while the femme lays her pink helm on her arms and her frame shakes with her silent sobs. Ironhide sits rigidly at the table, his back struts stiff, unsure of what to do to make her feel better. There are others who would be better at this. A whole slag-load better. Why did Elita chose him to unload on? He doesn't know anything about comforting crying, distraught femmes.

The yellow sparkling glances up at Ironhide as if he senses that something is wrong and his large optics blink slowly. He peeks at Elita's shaking frame, to Ironhide and then back to Elita. Cautiously he crawls across the table and sits in front of the pink femme. He chirps lightly at her, causing her silent sobs to subside, but her faceplates stay in her arms. The mechling lays a tiny servo on top of the femme's helm and chirps again. Elita slowly raises her helm and looks into the sparkling's endearing, worried optics. The baby bot puts two little servos on each of Elita's cheek plates and hugs her face to his little chassis. He pulls back slightly and beeps in question. A grin splits the pink femme's lip plates as she gazes down at the sparkling. She gently takes him into her arms and hugs him, the mechling attempts to hug back but his arms don't even reach the span of the femme's chest plating so he is just splayed awkwardly onto her chassis.

"It appears he is better at this than I am," Ironhide says dryly.

Elita smirks at him, "So it would seem." Ironhide sees in her optics that though the sparkling may have stopped her crying he did not fixed the issue, he only suppressed it.

"Elita," the weapons specialist's tone demands she look at him, and she does. Ironhide gives her a look that suggests that she pay close attention, "I've known Optimus for a long time. Tell him. Trust me, he wants your sparkling."

Elita nods her helm sheepishly and says rather ashamed, "I'm sorry for crying, Hide. I just get really emotional right now." She places the sparkling back on the table and he crawls to the edge of it fearlessly.

The yellow sparkling glares fearsomely at all the bots milling around laxly in the rec room until one catches his optic. He remembers the small silver mech with the funny blue thing over his optics. He squeals wildly at mech to catch his attention and it works like a charm. The silver saboteur walks over and the sparkling reaches up to indicate he wanted Jazz to hold him.

"Common, Scrappy!" the silver mech says as he snatches him off the table before Ironhide can stop him. Jazz grins cockily at the black mech and Ironhide warns him with an even glare not to get too reckless with the mechlet. Jazz huffs and shrugs in silent compliance to the unvoiced demand and then turns away with the sparkling happily bouncing in his arms. "Look who I got!" Jazz crows loudly and it isn't long before bots begin to gather around the duo to play with the sparkling.

"He hasn't even been here an orn_ (1 earth week)_ and look at those big pushovers," Elita says nodding toward the gathering crowd of warriors, "every single one of them wouldn't think twice about giving their spark for that mechling." Ironhide nods absently as he stares at the little giggling bot. "It's going to crush this base when he leaves," Elita murmurs as Jazz commences to tickle the baby bot until he squeals with laughter. Ironhide nods again and smirks to himself as Bulkhead plucks the yellow sparkling from Jazz's sharp claws.

Elita glances back to the black mech in front of her. She sees his optics trained on the little mechling with a fierce protectiveness shining through that he couldn't even begin to hide if he wanted to.

"Speaking of pushovers," she teases lightly as she taps his servo with one of her finger digit. Ironhide looks at her with no amusement and Elita's teasing smile fades, "What's wrong, Hide?"

The weapons specialist's frame stiffens as the awful memory files that he has to actively force himself to forget pushes itself before his optics... A young mech just out of his youngling-hood. His creators brutally offlined before his optics by a band of street rabble at the cause of the small feud that would soon blow up into the terrible civil war that would swallow the whole planet in darkness. The young mech takes guardianship of his three younger siblings, one mechling and two older femmelings. Foolishly thinking it is the best choice he takes the little ones to a good youth sector and joins the military ranks in service to the Autobots. A few vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_ later he receives word of his sisters' offlining and his brother's disappearance.

The youth sector failed him.

He failed his family unit.

"Hide?" Elita asks again.

"I can't do it, Lita," Ironhide says his vocals grim and rough, "I can't take him to a youth sector, I trusted a place like that once before and…" the weapons specialist doesn't finish realizing he is going far too deep into his past for comfort so he merely says, "I failed in keeping my charges safe. I made the error of overestimating a youth sector's abilities and I do not make the same mistake twice."

"Then talk to Optimus," Elita says with a reassuring smile, "I'm sure he will see your point."

"It's not Optimus that would have a problem with it, it's Prowl," the black mech says and leans back in his seat, when the pink and white femme doesn't answer he continues, "And I think I see his point." Elita sits quietly waiting for the mech to carry on and he does, but not before a long lingering silence. "He says the base is not safe for a sparkling and that warriors are not suited for his care. He's right, I nearly let the mechling offline this cycle_ (day)_ in the Target Range!" Ironhide growls, clenching his servo and slamming it into the table with such force that a dent forms on its surface.

"I don't know what to tell you," Elita replies and presses her lip components into a tight line and then leans forward to place her elbow struts onto the table. Her optic ridge creases in concentration before she finally says, "I think the fact that you thought about all those things proves that you wouldn't be a good guardian," Ironhide glances off to the side with a grunt of agreement, and Elita smiles at his reaction before adding "It proves that you would be the best." Ironhide's optics narrow and he watches her get up with a self-satisfied smile. She leaves the weapon specialist deep in his processings and he looks again to the mechling in the midst of the Wreckers with denial.

Elita is wrong.

He wouldn't be good for the sparkling, much less the best.

* * *

"I will bet you five credits he will pick me over Bulk," Pyro says to Wheeljack.

"Knock yourself out, Py," the older Wrecker says with an encouraging servo gestured toward the small mechlet. Pyro quickly finishes off his high-grade cube with enthusiasm and makes a show of positioning himself in front of Bulkhead.

"Don't let me down, Stubby!" Pyro begs the mechling and holds out his servos for the baby bot to come. The yellow mechling looks down at the smaller mech's servos then up to his facial features before looking at the big, green Wrecker who is currently holding him. The sparkling smiles widely at Bulkhead as he throws his arms around the green mech's neck cables in a tight, desperate-to-stay hug and kicks his legs excitedly, Pyro's helm and servos sag in his defeat.

"Pay up, Py," Wheeljack says smugly. The grumbling red-orange mech slaps the credits into the other Wrecker's servos and Wheeljack grins as he stores the newly acquired credit chips into his sub-space.

It's been almost three cycles_ (days)_ since the Wreckers have seen action in the battlefield with their last mission being the one with Hot Rod. That was the kind of action the Wreckers enjoy and they are growing restless fast with all the sitting around. Why couldn't Optimus just give them a job having to do with smashing a few Cons, or better yet, why didn't he just assign them a new superior and send them back out to their post? That would be better than sitting here under Prowl's ever vigilant gaze. So what if the new superior would quit or offline within a few deca cycles_ (1 deca cycle = approx. 1 month)_? At least the Wreckers would have venting room!

"I don't know about the rest of you mechs, but I'm going insane," Topspin growls from his seat next to Bulkhead. Twintwist, Rotorstorm, Leadfoot, Impactor, Seaspray, and Whirl are all currently brigged at the cause of their brawls that Prowl had absolutely no patience for.

At this moment Hot Rod comes stalking through the door looking grouchier than a Dinobot. He orders a medium grade cube and sits a table over from the Wreckers' with a data-pad in front of him and a scowl on his lip components. Underhand snickers and elbows Roadbuster, gesturing toward the tri-colored mech with his scarlet helm.

"Reports?" Roadbuster questions innocently, yet gloatingly. Hot Rod looks up, his scowl deepening.

"Yeah," he growls after taking a swig of his energon, "and I'm sure as pit gonna mention some of the questionable behaviors of my slagging team." An 'I-win' smirk plays on his lip plates as he sees the two Wreckers narrow their gaze at him.

"Yeah, but nothing can be more questionable than what you did to that traitor," Pyro pipes in with a snort of laughter. Hot Rod cocks a grin at the mech's statement but doesn't respond, instead he studies the remaining ubbrigged Wreckers with amusement.

"Bored?" Hot Rod asks as he leans back in his seat and swivels around to face them.

"Oh Primus, is it that obvious?" Pyro asks sarcastically.

"Tell you what," Hot Rod says lowly for the Wreckers' audios only, "whoever is still unbrigged this lunar cycle_ (night)_ meet me at the south exit. I'll see if I can't remedy that boredom." The looks of suspicion from the Wreckers makes a grin come to Hot Rod faceplates. Hot Rod is about to turn back around when he notices Ironhide watching them from a few tables over. It would be fun to annoy the big, black mech a bit. Hot Rod leans forward and braces his elbow struts on his knee plating and asks loudly to catch his old teacher's attention, "So did anyone give him a designation yet?" He throws in a gesture toward the sparkling in Bulkhead's arms so Ironhide would know whom he is speaking of.

"Is that our job?" Bulkhead asks.

"Well, it's not like his Carrier is going to do it," Hot Rod points out and notices Ironhide already scowling at him from his peripheral vision, "besides a mech needs a designation."

"How about Scrappy?!" Jazz offers enthusiastically. The femmes near the group of mechs in the rec. room all groan simultaneously, causing the saboteur's faceplates to turn unsure as he throws in one more suggestion, "Scrapper?"

"Jazz," Arcee exclaims from her position at the long bar with her femme friends, "why would you designate someone so cute after someone who rips things apart?" All optics turn toward the sparkling, who sees he is in the middle of attention so he squeals happily and proceeds to shake his low grade energon bottle that Bulkhead had given him to the pit. Jazz nods his helm in defeat.

"He definitely doesn't look like a Scrapper," Jazz says mournfully.

"We shall call you Stubby!" Pyro announces loudly to the mechling.

"He's not going to be short forever," Springer argues as he sits down on a seat next to Hot Rod. Pyro mockingly mouths out Springer's words to Topspin and Roadbuster who snigger at the green and white mech's expense.

"I think I have one," the tactical Second, Piston, says as he walks up to the Wreckers' table, wanting to be a part of this naming process.

"And what makes you think we are going to listen to suggestions from a mech designated after a joint?" Wheeljack asks lazily from his seat.

"You're one to talk, Jackie!" Pyro says guffawing and ensues to pretend to be jacking up an alt mode, pumping vigorously. Laughter scatters through the rec. room at the overcharged bot's display and Wheeljack smiles at his brother-in-arm's enthusiasm.

"You keep talking, mech, and you will be nothing but a skid mark on the floor," Wheeljack threatens insincerely. Pyro throws his servos up in mock fear and begins dancing around the other mech's seat, shadow boxing. The hyper mech quickly gets bored with his opponents lack of movement and then turns to the sparkling in Bulkhead's arms. Pyro buries his helm into the little yellow mechling's stomach plating with a laugh, but the little bot yodels irritably as he kicks his short legs and throws his arms about in a half-tantrum.

"Sparkling," Ironhide warns gruffly from his lonely table, promptly bringing the mechling's fit to an end.

The baby bot lays his helm on Bulkhead's chest in shame and Pyro frowns, "I'm sorry, Squeaker."

"Py, leave him be," Topspin gripes, pushing the mech away, "Look, you got him in trouble and now he's sad."

Ironhide scoffs and mutters, "He'll be fine."

"Power Puff," Piston says to fill the silence, trying to keep a straight face as he suggests the most atrocious designation that comes to his processor. He looks around at the strange looks he is getting from everyone in the room. "That's my designation input."

"And this is why we are not listening to you, Joint," Wheeljack says with an unbelieving groan.

"Cheapshot," Underhand suggests with a grin and all the Wreckers present nod their helms in agreement as the femmes make faces.

An angry squeal from the yellow mechling causes the rec room to fall silent and everyone turns, ready to obliterate whatever or whoever was vexing their baby bot. Bulkhead is trying to hold in his fit of laughter at the face the little mechling is giving Pyro for touching his cheek plating. The sparkling's optic ridge is scrunched into an angry V and his lip plating takes the form of a tiny snoot as he glares at the orange-red Wrecker, his vents coming in little huffs.

"Primus, Py, what did you do to him?" Hot Rod asks with a snort of laughter.

"Watch!" Pyro says his optics shining in delight and disbelief that the cute little mechling could arbor so much fury. Pyro sweetly tweaks the baby bot's cheek plates. The mechling's features twist in furious outrage and he throws his little frame back against Bulkhead's arms with a scream.

"Sparkling," the sharp reprimand doesn't come from Ironhide this time; it comes from Prowl, who had just entered the refueling station just in time to see the mechling's spoiled display of anger. "That is enough," the H.T. says his vocals blunt and inflectionless.

The yellow sparkling's helm whips toward the scolding mech's hard faceplates, his tiny optic brow furrowing and his little bottom lip plating begins to quiver. He promptly places his wee servos over his faceplates and a pitiful cry escapes his vocalizer, Prowl isn't amused. Prowl is never amused. After a few nano-kliks_ (1 nano-klik=1 earth sec.)_ of weeping the rotten, little bot looks up at his punisher, clearly expecting to see pity or humor on the mech's features but is met by an impassive look. The mechling repeats his previous action, but this time real tears form in his optics and spill over as he sees Prowl is very serious. He meekly stretches his short, yellow-plated arms in the black and white doorwinger's direction.

"You're fine," Prowl says, denying the sparkling gently as he turns to head for the long bar. He is stopped in his tracks by a screaming squall from the mechlet. Everyone stares at the sparkling, knowing full well that Prowl wouldn't tolerate such behavior. The Head Tactician doesn't disappoint them. He turns back toward Bulkhead and the mechling, approaching with a no nonsense demeanor and picks the sparkling up. He takes him directly to an empty table and sets him on top, leaving him there in time-out.

An unbelieving squeak comes from the sparkling's small vocalizer followed by a scream of outrage. All the bots in the rec. room watch soberly as the doorwinger orders his energon cube and sits alone a few tables away from the furious baby bot completely ignoring his fit.

"Pyro, leave him," Prowl commands without looking up, stopping the Wrecker from going over to comfort the baby bot.

"But-"

"Pyro, listen to the mech and don't touch the sparkling," Ironhide growls and the mech sits back down with a huff causing the sparkling's angered screaming to become more desperate as he sees his savior is held off.

Prowl doesn't show his inward disbelief at the demonstration of total idiocy coming from the fully upgraded mechs and femmes of the base. It is clear in his optics that the mechling has gotten away with far too much around these bots already. Prowl wonders if Ironhide had a servo in the sparkling's spoiling, but a glance at the weapons specialist's faceplates say the mech is just as displeased at the baby bot's fit as Prowl is. At least the sparkling's temporary caregiver is not going to let him act like a hellion from Unicron, but it is hard to discipline a sparkling if everyone around him is determined to turn him into a scraplet from Pit.

Pyro lays his helm in his servos to keep himself from seeing the mechling, who begins to kick the table in his anger. When this tactic of anger doesn't work the sparkling throws himself down on the table and pounds his fisted servos on it as his scream doubles in pitch. Finally, he lays defeated on the surface of the table, his anger drained, and he sobs brokenly.

Arcee turns her helm away from the sight and plays with her empty energon cube, while Bulkhead gazes at the sparkling, wishing so badly to go pick him up. Topspin, Roadbuster, Underhand, and Hot Rod were all sharing snickers at the wild show of anger, but immediately sober when the sparkling began sobbing sadly. Springer is wringing his servos tightly with a clenched jaw hinge, Piston absently swirls the energon in his cube, and Wheeljack's optics are closed pretending to be in recharge so no one sees that he, a Wrecker, is nearly going insane with a sudden protective streak, wanting so bad to pummel Prowl for doing this to the mechling, but knowing it is for the sparkling's own good. Prowl and Ironhide sit emotionless at different corners of the room, completely unfazed, Jazz is staring wide opticked across the rec room with a look that says he is unimpressed at this new development in the mechling, and Pyro's helm is still in his arms.

After what seems like an eternity to the waiting bots, Prowl rises from his seat and walks to the sparkling who has now fallen completely silent. The yellow baby looks up at Prowl with the most spark-breaking optics seen on Cybertron and slowly sits up.

"No more fits," the black and white doorwinger orders sternly, which grants him a somber nod of agreement from the mechling. With that the H.T. picks the sparkling up off the table and joins Jazz. As Prowl sits down next to the silver mech the sparkling lays his yellow helm on Prowl's chest armor over his spark and falls into recharge listening to its hum.

The same panicked feeling that had come over Prowl in Praxus begins to rise in his core. Careful to keep his vents even and controlled, the H.T.'s optics dart around for a means of escape from this situation. He could hand the mechlet to Jazz... No. He had just punished the mechling. He must stay here and show a little compassion for him. Gradually the feeling subsides, and this is when Prowl realizes no one has said a word. He fights the urge to rub the back of his neck plating in discomfort. His right doorwing ticks in tension as he sits rigidly next to the silver saboteur.

Jazz notices Prowl's doorwing hitch uncomfortably and swiftly catches everyones' attention to himself by cracking his faceplates open in a blinding smile. The saboteur claps his clawed servos together in sheer delight. "I've got it!" Jazz half whispers, half hisses to the bots around him. Everyone looks at him expectantly, but he lets a dramatic pause linger before he says in an extravagant voice, "Tantrum."

"Hey, that's actually not bad," Hot Rod interjects with a nod of his helm. Prowl looks between the two thoroughly confused.

"Thank you," Jazz says dramatically, flopping back in his seat. He grins at Arcee and points one of his claws at her, daring her to say she didn't like it.

"There is a mech in the Decepticon ranks designated Tantrum," the dark blue fembot says with an optic roll.

"Uggghhh!" Jazz groans, draping himself over the table in front of him in exasperation and he wails while clenching his servos, "Why didn't Primus create a data pad on how to please fembots?!"

"Because then mechs would have far too much time on their servos," Hot Rod says sarcastically. Almost all the mechs in the rec room chuckle in agreement, save Prowl, Ironhide, and Pyro, whose helm is still in his arms. The femmes present send those who agreed dirty looks.

Prowl sits deep in processing, torn between smiling at the perfect designation Jazz had suggested and telling every bot in the room it was not their job to give the sparkling a designation. It is Firefly's. He almost glitches at the illogical processing. Prowl regains control of his emotional core swiftly by reminding himself of the painful, but blaring truth. _Firefly is offline, therefore she cannot give the sparkling a designation._

The mechling could be designated after her, though. Prowl entertains the thought by researching his bonded's name. _Firefly, the name of an organic bug on a planet visited by their ancestors long ago. _A small smirk flits on Prowl's lip plates, he had never thought of that before. He swiftly runs over the collected files he had stored from libraries long ago of the seeker's findings on the organic planet. _Flea, _frown, _a body fluid sucking pest, tick,_ scowl, _another fluid-sucker. Grasshopper, not bad, but would be illogical to designate the sparkling that, considering that a grasshopper is green and he is yellow._ Prowl then begins searching the files for yellow bugs. _Butterfly, sounds like a femme, yellow jacket, sounds like a Decepticon, bumblebee…_Prowl pauses at this one. He likes it. He likes it quite a lot. Prowl peers down at the resting sparkling and tests the designation in his processor. Bumblebee, mech creation of Firefly. It suits.

Prowl brings the bickering among the bots to a screeching halt with one word, "Bumblebee."

"What?" Jazz asks stupidly.

"Bumblebee," Prowl repeats, "it's a name suggestion."

Everyone stares at the tactical bot until Jazz asks with his mouthplates open weirdly, "Why would you designate him after an organic bug?"

"His Carrier was," Prowl reasons without thinking.

"How do you know that?" Bulkhead questions curiously.

Prowl's spark stalls. They can't know... They will put him in charge of the sparkling and he will fail him as he did Firefly. They can't know.

"The femme rescued from Praxus confirmed the Carrier's designation. They were good friends, I believe." Prowl recovers from his blunder without giving any indication to his internal struggle. No one has to know that he was sparkbonded to Firefly, then Ironhide can stay the sparkling's caregiver until he is taken to the youth sector to be safe from the Prowl's constant mistakes. His failures.

"Bumblebee, huh?" Wheeljack asks laxly.

"I like it," they all swivel to look at Ironhide in the corner, who had spoken roughly.

"Me too," Arcee interjects, agreeing with Ironhide, from the long bar.

Jazz's optics widen at this statement from the femme and he begins to sputter in mock shock. "Prowl! How did you do that?! You have cracked the femme code!"

* * *

No one noticed a pink and purple femme that had entered the recreation room several kliks_ (1 klik= 1.2 earth min.)_ earlier and seated herself in a lone corner away from everyone to refuel alone. Twinkle listens to the funny designation suggestions coming from a small silver mech and smiles at the picture of all the huge warrior mechs that surround the baby bot.. Firefly would be happy to know that her sparkling is as safe as he will ever be.

She wishes she could be a bigger part of her best friend's sparkling's life, for he is the last thing Twinkle has of her. But he seems to be happy with his, dare she hope, new guardian, Ironhide. Twinkle must admit the mech is very intimidating. He is definately not the type she could just approach without her armor shaking right off of her frame from fear.

Twinkle's processing is interrupted by the vocals of the mech currently holding the precious baby bot. She loves the designation he suggests. It's perfect!

Bumblebee.

She continues to listen to the conversation until the silver saboteur makes an interjection that nearly snuffs her spark, "Prowl! How did you do that?! You have cracked the femme code!"

Prowl?! This mech is…is Firefly's mate! She looks him over from helm to pede. Firefly was right, he is handsome. She stops her processing as she takes in the sight before her.

Prowl is leaning against the back of the seat he is currently sitting on with his tiny son tucked protectively under his servo. As Bumblebee recharges over his Creator's spark, he hums in contentment. Twinkle feels the need to keen with joy but she merely wipes happy tears from her optics. The Creator begins to absently rub circles on his creation's small back structure causing the mechlet to grin in his recharge and mimic the motion on the larger mech's chest plating. The mech now looks oblivious to his surroundings as he stares down at his little creation and the femme suddenly feels like she is imposing on a private moment between father and son.

But why is Ironhide the mechling's guardian if his Creator is here?

The first part of the bots' conversation finally registers into her processor along with her newly acquired knowledge. The big, green Wrecker, designated Bulkhead, had asked Prowl how he had known what Bumblebee's Carrier's designation was. Prowl had not said they were sparkbonded or that he had even known the femme. A cold feeling creeps up Twinkle's frame as she stares at the pair.

Nobody knows that Bumblebee is Prowl's son. That can be the only explanation. He didn't tell anyone. But did that mean…? Twinkle feels herself stiffen with a sickening sorrow for Firefly and Bumblebee and a stifling rage toward Prowl. Did that mean he wasn't claiming his son?

* * *

_Twinkle's slagged off. Prowl, you need to gather your ducks, because they are scattered here and yon. _

_Leave me you're thoughts on this chapter. Reviews make me feel good about myself. ;)_

_As a side note. I have also just wrote my first one-shot. So if that's your kind of thing feel free to check it out._


	9. Chapter 8

_I finally got around to updating again! Let's hear the applause! :D_

_Anywee, this time you get feels, feels, more feels, and a cliffhanger. Mwahahahaha. I am a meanie._

_This chapter is a lot longer than any of the rest... enjoy it... it will not happen often._

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

Prowl walks slowly back toward the tactical office, his processings in a crazy whirlwind. He can still feel the phantom weight of the mechlet in his arms. Bumblebee... did he actually name the yellow sparkling? What was he thinking?

He slipped up back there. He almost revealed that he was Bumblebee's Creator. Luckily no one caught on. Or he thinks.

The sound of fast, soft pedefalls pace after him and Prowl's optics tighten as he realizes who is following him. Of course _that_ mech would figure it out. Gathering information is what he was made for. He would have made the connection. It was foolish for Prowl to even consider thinking otherwise.

"Prowler, wait up!" Jazz calls as he nears and Prowl fights the urge to walk faster. Instead he forces himself to turn and face his friend. Jazz slows to a stop in front of the black and white doorwinger and Prowl can feel the concern oozing from the saboteur's nonchalant exterior. Jazz doesn't smile, which is odd. Jazz always smiles. "How you holding up?" the smaller, silver mech asks.

Prowl stares at the T.I.C. impassively and says formally, "Quite well. I am going to go to my office and go over some-"

"That's not what I meant, Prowl," Jazz says with his air of carelessness dropping immediately. Prowl's optics narrow at the interruption and the fact that Jazz doesn't even seem the least bit sorry for the rudeness. Jazz doesn't notice his irritation and continues, "I realize you probably just need time and space, but..." Jazz shakes his helm before going on, "Firefly was your mate and that mechling in there," he gestures back toward the rec room, "is your creation." Prowl blinks without expression as Jazz stares at him with exasperation starting to show even through his visor. "Prowl, you can't run from this," the silver mech states softly.

"I am not running," Prowl says his optics narrowing even more.

"Then why is Ironhide taking care of your son?" Jazz calmly asks with his arms crossing.

"It was Optimus Prime who chose Ironhide as the sparkling's caretaker and it is only for a few cycles_ (days)_, he will then be taken to a youth sector," Prowl answers stiffly.

"Do you really think an orphanage is what that mechlet needs?"

"Yes!" Prowl intakes deeply as he realizes he just snapped at Jazz and then says in more civil vocals, "Yes. I do."

Jazz doesn't believe him. He can see it even as the saboteur holds up his servos in surrender, "Ok." Jazz steps back as if to give him some venting room and Prowl just notices that his armor was starting to flare outward defensively. Immediately he settles it back onto his frame and flicks his doorwings in a silent apology. Jazz will forgive him...

Jazz always forgives him. Kind of like Firefly.

Prowl's whole frame stiffens as his processor leads him back to the painful memory; his throat pipes burn and his optics suddenly blur unexplainably. Swiftly he nods a goodbye to Jazz and turns away with something clogging his vocals.

"Prowl?" Jazz stops him and Prowl turns his helm slightly to indicate that he is listening. There is a brief silence before Jazz says almost softly, "I just want you to know I'm here for you."

Prowl's vents stall and almost hitch in his chest. He clears his throat pipes hastily and replies, "Thank you, Jazz." Even as he walks away and feels Jazz's penetrating optics watching his retreat he feels a fresh wave of pain settle over his spark. Was he being a horrible father? Jazz must understand that this is the only way to protect the sparkling. If Prowl would get close to Bumblebee he would just fail him. Like he did Firefly.

His frame seems to be walking by itself as he reaches the tactical room and disappears into his office. As soon as his door closes behind him he promptly buries himself in a mound of work to forget. Anything to forget her. Anything to ease the pain.

Kliks_ (1.2 earth min.)_ turn into breems_ (8.3 earth min.) _and breems merge into joors _(__6.5 earth hrs.)_ as the tactician slowly loses track of time. He barely notices as his awareness levels begin to diminish. He doesn't notices at all as his optics shutter and his helm droops forward in exhaustion, nor does he feel his helm fall forward onto the stack of datapads in front of him...

"Prowl," a feminine voice sounds from the corner of his office. His helm snaps up and he sees a form emerge from the shadows of his office almost timidly. He frowns at the thought that someone got into his office without him knowing.

"Who is there?" He asks with authority in his vocals and the femme steps out of the shadows with her optics huge. Firefly... how? He doesn't care. Prowl stands so swiftly that his chair clatters backwards onto the floor. He steps toward her with his spark pulsing in utter joy that she is here, but... something is wrong. She is frowning at him. Prowl stops short and stares at her, confused. "Firefly?" he questions cautiously.

"You didn't come," she says softly and steps further out of the shadows. What he sees almost makes him wish that she didn't. Injuries litter her frame and blue energon gushes out of her wounds.

"Firefly!" he gasps and reaches for her to help her. To stop the endless flowing of blue. He tries but it bubbles through his finger digits on onto the floor even more rapidly in light of his efforts. Firefly doesn't move as Prowl franticly tries to stop the gurgling life fluids from emptying out of her battered frame. "It is okay," Prowl mutters feverishly and he holds his servos over the largest of the wounds. The blue liquid stains his servos and Prowl stares in horror at the growing puddle at their pedes.

"Why didn't you come?" Firefly asks in no more than a whisper. Her optics begin to glaze over and flicker. No...

"Just stay with me, Firefly. I will get you to Ratchet," Prowl murmurs as he tries to stop the energon that floods out of a new wound. "Just hold on. It will be okay," his words are lies even to his audios. She is beyond saving.

"Why didn't you save me?" she whimpers sadly with tears forming in her fading optics.

"I am sorry, Firefly" Prowl chokes out, trying not to begin sobbing, "I am so sorry."

"You didn't come," she repeats.

Prowl shakes his helm with tears rolling down his faceplates as he continues desperately to try to stop the fatal leaks coming from her, "Stop."

"You didn't come," the accusation is more biting as she repeats it over and over. A large hole appears over her spark chamber. Sparks and energon pours from the hideous bent and twisted metal and Firefly's vocals are chopped short. She staggers forward, her optics dark. Listless.

"No!" Prowl cries, lunging to catch her as she crumples to the ground. Her frame collides with his and her helm rolls off of her shoulders as they crash to the ground together. Her helm rolls and comes to a rest facing him. Her optics light up red and she hisses at him with malice, energon spewing from her lip components along with the biting words.

"This is all your fault!"

Prowl jerks away from the sight with a cry and hits the ground harshly on his backstruts. His optics online swiftly and he scrambles to his pedes with his chestplates heaving wildly. His whitish optics frantically scan his office. It is empty. No glowing energon is on the floor. Firefly is not here. Prowl vents harshly at his illogical actions and calmly uprights his overturned chair then sits down with his whole frame forcibly rigid. His optics continue to scan the room for a while longer before he vents again and places his helm in his trembling servos to squeeze his optics shut against the emotions and the pain in his spark. He vaguely hears a soft knock on his office door before the bot at the entrance comes in.

"Prowl," the deep baritone of the Prime enters his audios and Prowl's helm snaps up.

"Prime," he says as he rises, "I was not expecting you."

"I realize this," Optimus says with some worry budding in his optics, "I am here because some of the tactical bots thought they heard you... in your office." There is a long pause and Prowl mentally supplies the word 'screaming' or 'shouting' in the polite hole in the Prime's sentence. "They were concerned for you and when they tried your door it was locked," Optimus continues with electric blue gaze on Prowl, "Since none of them have the clearance to enter your office when it is locked they sought someone who did. Hence my presence."

"You do not need to explain yourself to me, Prime," Prowl replies with his optics lowered.

"Naturally," Optimus says with a small smile on his faceplates, "But as I recall you do not enjoy having your space intruded without reason." Prowl only nods to answer and Optimus' worry doubles. "Are you feeling well, Prowl?" Optimus asks with his optic ridges furrowing in growing concern.

"I am fine," Prowl says softly, but the tremble in his doorwings beg to differ with his statement. Optimus' keen optics catch the subtle sign of fatigue before Prowl can mask it as a twitch and the Prime frowns.

"It is late. I think you should go to your quarters and get some recharge," Optimus suggests as he watches the tactician move to the other side of the desk.

Prowl begins arranging the datapads on his desk as he answers, "I still have a lot of work to do."

"Prowl," Optimus warns.

Prowl stops with his servos clenching several datapads. His doorwings shakes visibly and then droop tiredly, no longer trying to conceal his exhaustion. The H.T. looks up at the Prime and vents slowly, "Yes sir."

* * *

Hot Rod stealthily picks his way down the corridor. Over the vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_ he has gotten to be an expert at sneaking out. This time is different. This is the first time he is attempting to sneak other bots out with him. He still wonders what he was thinking, asking all those mechs to join him. Maybe it was the utterly bored look on the Wreckers' faceplates that was so terribly pitiful that he had to have mercy on the warriors and invite them to have a little fun.

Besides, Hot Rod reasons, he has a pretty good feeling that every single one of them need an outlet of the anger they feel toward the cons for the destruction of Praxus. He knows that he still does, but until he gets another mission he needs to hit something to release anger before he does something stupid to land himself in the brig again. He will go utterly insane in there!

Hot Rod hears someone coming up the hallway behind him and they are clearly attempting to be sneaky. The key word being attempting. Hot Rod smirks as he picks up the sound of another pair of lighter pedes. Make that two someones attempting to be sneaky.

Hot Rod waits at the corner of the hall and anticipates the approaching perpetrators and wonders who he will find. Everyone is supposed to be in recharge, the base did have a curfew for anyone not on guard duty. Guards don't try to sneak around the base and the Wrecker's wouldn't make that much noise…well, exept maybe Bulkhead.

The two dark frames round the corner and Hot Rod pounces. He grabs the larger one in an arm lock from behind then uses the mech's bulk to trap the smaller bot against the wall. There is a grunt from the bigger mech and a small squeak from... Arcee?

"Springer?! Arcee?!" Hot Rod hisses with irritation at being found. Even in his ire he still finds it funny that Springer's cooling systems kick on at the fact that he is currently being pressed like a sandwich against Arcee's frame. Springer's helm twist to glare at Hot Rod and the light green mech scowls at the fact that he can barely wiggle a centimeter in any direction in the larger mech's steel grip.

"Hot Rod, let go!" Springer hisses back.

The tri-colored mech obliges and roughly spins his friend to look at him, giving him a 'what-the-slag' glare, "What are you two doing out here?"

At the same time Springer snaps in a whisper, "Why didn't you invite me?"

Hot Rod pointedly looks down at his friend's femme companion then back up to him with a raise of his optic ridge. He mouths 'She's why' without even trying to hide it from Arcee. The femme narrows her gaze at the larger of the pair and points a slender digit into his faceplates with her lip components opening to give him a piece of her processor.

"Shhhhh!" Hot Rod hisses suddenly and flattens them against the bases wall in the shadows. From down the corridor they see Optimus Prime and Prowl leave the Tactical Office and turn down the hall away from them. Prowl looks like slag, Hot Rod notes with a smirk. Now back to the problem at hand. Hot Rod vents the air he had been holding then turns to his friends.

"I can handle myself, Hot Rod," Arcee retorts in a force whisper after she can't hear the sound of the two mech's pede falls anymore.

Hot Rod gives her an unconvinced, mocking smile, "I have no doubt."

"Besides I'll look out for her," Springer interjects quickly, seeing how incredulous Hot Rod looks. This causes said mech to turn unimpressed optics on him. A snort of disbelief huffs though the tri-colored mech's vents.

"Fine," he scoffs before shoving the two down the hall, "hurry up or we'll miss the window."

They listen to him. Which is a pleasant surprise after what happened with the Wreckers a few cycles_ (days)_ ago.

As the threesome approach the exit Hot Rod spots the Wreckers. A grand total of six. Hot Rod smirks, he is quite impressed that this many of them managed to stay out of the brig this long, they must be more excited about leaving than they let on before. He ignores the looks he gets from the rough mechs at the sight of his two tagalongs and greets the only guard on duty.

"Hey, Blades," Hot Rod says with a smile.

"You're cutting it a little close kid," the mech says with a short laugh. Hot Rod and Blades have a mutual understanding; when Blades is on duty he lets Hot Rod have a little leeway on the security change and vice versa. They haven't been caught... yet.

"Come on, Blades," the tri-colored mech says with a shrug and arrogance resonating in his vocals, "you know that's just how I roll."

The guard smirks at the younger, cocky mech and opens the base doors, "Right. I forgot. Anyway have fun."

"I always do-"

"And next time..." Blades calls after Hot Rod, causing him to whirl around and give the guard a look of irritation for holding him up, but Blades merely matches his gaze, "think of who else you might be effecting before you get yourself thrown in the brig." Hot Rod nods with a slight smile coloring his lip components as he realizes he must have had guard duty one of those lunar cycles he was in the brig and, since he wasn't able to fulfill that duty from the brig, caused Blades to miss out on an 'outing'.

Oops.

As the door slides shut and locks behind them the Wreckers all let a vent of relief.

"Careful of the security cameras," Hot Rod warns as he heads toward the streets of the sleeping Iaconian city. The mech transforms into his Cybertronian race car alt mode and speeds through the mainly empty streets. He bites back a snicker as he hears the Wreckers bickering behind him and he wonders just how long it will take them to question exactly where he is taking him. Pyro and Topspin sidle up to either side of him casually... apparently not long.

"So are we just going to cruise through the city for the next two joors_ (1 joor=6.5 earth hrs.)_?" Pyro asks with a little disappointment tinting his tone.

"No," Hot Rod replies, "we're going to the street fights of Tyger Pax," he throws in rather mildly. All the Wreckers, save Bulkhead, laugh in sheer joy and anticipation of the coming events.

"But street fighting is illegal," Bulkhead says as he drives up closer to the front of the group to talk to Hot Rod.

"I know," the young mech says scoffing.

Bulkhead frowns deeply, "I don't think this is the best idea."

"We should listen to Bulkhead," Springer reasons from the back of the pack.

"Yeah," Arcee agrees with the more mature mechs and Topspin groans emphatically.

"If you don't want to go, then don't," Topspin states, refusing to allow anyone to come between him and a lunar cycle of freedom.

"Yeah," Wheeljack adds with humor, "It's not like we're holding a cannon to your helm." His tone slightly suggests that he might if Bulkhead doesn't come willingly. The big, green Wrecker groans in defeat.

"Bulk," Roadbuster interjects in a wild voice promising adventure, "don't you want hit something?"

Bulkhead grunts, "Yeah."

"But why are we going to Tyger Pax?" Underhand asks, "Isn't there street fighting in Iacon too?"

Hot Rod allows a self-satisfied chuckle, "That my friends, is because I've already beat all of Iacon's street fighters," he says non-too-humbly.

"Ok," Pyro says his pitch high and unbelieving, "so the little mechlet has been around the block!"

Said mech scoffs in sarcastic humor at the jab pointed at his younger age.

The group exits the city in a little less than five kliks_ (1 klik=1.2 earth min.)_ and head in a direct course for Tyger Pax. Traveling approximately eighteen miles a klik they reach the city's gates in less than four breems_ (1 breem=8.3 earth min.)_.

As they transform and approach the northern gate of the sleeping city of Tyger Pax one of the guards places a servo in front of Hot Rod to halt him and the group following him. The guard glances at all the mechs and the femme present and then says, "Sorry, Autobots, no weapons within city limits. You can retrieve them on your way out." The guard adds the last sentence as a select few in the group begin grumbling. As he stashes the many weapons away in the guard station to be stored by his fellow sentries he feels the need to reassure the group with some humor, "Don't worry, we do this to Decepticons too, so no, we don't have a pick on you."

"Well that sure is good to know," Pyro says with fake sincerity. The guard makes an immature face at the reddish-orange mech and Pyro sticks his glossa out in return.

The bots are granted entrance to the city with smirks on their lip plates at the sparklingish exchange between the guard and the Wrecker.

After wandering for about a klik_ (1.2 earth min.)_ Hot Rod stops the group, "Wait here," he orders. The Wreckers promptly wonder down the street a ways and Hot Rod scowls deeply. Frag them.

The young mech leaves the only two who listened, Springer and Arcee, and heads to a back alley where he knows someone will be waiting. He spots the silhouetted form of the mech he was looking for leaning against a dark abandoned structure.

"It's a nice lunar cycle_ (night)_," the mech observes casually as Hot Rod approaches.

"I didn't notice," Hot Rod replies as he stops a few feet away. The mech turns his helm to look the young Autobot over carefully and a frown visibly settles on his faceplates.

"Hot Rod," he pulls away from his leaning and steps further into the light, "We all heard about what happened in Praxus."

"Yeah? What's it to you?" Hot Rod asks with his optics narrowed.

The mech shrugs, "I worked in Praxus for a while as an intel bot under the designation Sharpsay. The job got a little bit bad for my health, if you know what I'm saying. Anyway, I had a lot of friends there." The mech frowns again, "You Autobots planning on doing something about it?"

Hot Rod scoffs, "I don't know if the higher-ups are going to, but you can bet I'm going to make them pay any chance I get."

The mech hums thoughtfully then asks out of the blue, "So how are you finding the city?"

Hot Rod grins at the security question then answers, "A bit dull." One down.

"You don't enjoy visiting Tyger Pax?"

"On the contrary, I rather enjoy what happens behind the scenes." Two down.

The mech smiles wryly then asks, "What kind of behind the scenes are you referring to?"

Hot Rod returns his smile with a grin, "The kind that involves broken knuckle bolts." Three down. He celebrates mentally at his victory and raises his optic ridges at the mech expectantly.

The mech purses his lip components, "That's illegal."

"And that's not a question." Four down. He is in.

The mech smiles at the young Autobot and leans back against the wall, "The scene you're looking for is down this alley."

Hot Rod grins then turns and motions for the others to come. Springer and Arcee are the first ones there considering that they didn't wonder two blocks down the street from boredom. When the last of the Wreckers file through the alleyway Hot Rod nods to the mech with a smile, "'Til next time, Sharpsay."

The mech smirks, "Its Slit here in Tyger Pax, kid."

Hot Rod nods in acknowledgement then paces after the Wreckers with Springer and Arcee sticking close to his tail. He leads them into the dimly lit back ally with confidence as the sounds of metal slamming against metal reaches his audios. He hears a cheer from inside the abandoned structure and he smiles as he spots the entrance. Without hesitation he saunters through the doorway of the old building. His senses are assaulted by the sight.

The lighting in here is no better than in the alley. Its dark and loud. There is a temporary energon bar set up in the back with makeshift lights lining the top, casting an eerie bluish light on the mechs and femmes seated at its tabletop. He can see several tables with chairs sat haphazardly throughout the room full of bots. Shady serving femmes wade through the rowdy mechs with trays of glowing energon cubes in their servos; they offering flirty and somewhat seductive smiles to their customers. In the middle of it all is a circle of bots, cheering and betting on the servo fight going on in their 'ring'. The Wreckers have already barged in the crowd and have began throwing in their own bets.

Hot Rod looks at his two friends that stay at his side as they take in the scene with wide optics. He proabably should have made more of an effort to make them stay at base. They didn't belong here. In his slight remorse, Hot Rod decides not to join the fighting and stick with his friends for now. Just to make sure they will be okay. He leads the way to an empty table in the farthest corner there is while sending scathing glares at any mech who lays their perverted optics on Arcee. Most of them get the message, but there is a few who still openly drool over her. That is to be expected. Arcee is what many mechs would consider gorgeous.

Time slowly crawls by them with the three friends talking about whatever comes to processor, chasing away unwanted mech attention, and Hot Rod giving Springer pointers on how to flirt with fembots. After a short while Hot Rod realizes that Springer is beyond help. Especially when he asks Arcee for permission to try the pointers on her. Hot Rod sits back though, and finds some amusement in the two's 'flirting'. It is actually quite pathetic, with the cheesiest pickup lines Hot Rod has ever heard. As he laughs good-naturedly at their expense he turns his helm and his optics find a femme in the swarming crowd.

She is black and would nearly blend into the darkness if not for the flashing purple that accents her frame in all the right places. Hot Rod allows his optics to roam over her enticing curves and swaying hips. A small smirk plays across his features as he sits back in his seat to get a better view of her slim, agile figure as she easily twists around the frames about her. She ignores the lewd comments coming from the mechs nearby without so much as a glance in their direction. When an overcharged mech grabs the femme by her waist and pulls her into his lap with a boisterous laugh Hot Rod's smile disappears rapidly and he catches himself before his engine can gun loudly in irritation.

Why should he care?

But he does.

Before the femme's skidplating even settles onto the offending mech's lap she agilely throws her legs up, flips off of the mech and grabs the his left arm. She lifts him from his seat, grabs the back of his helm and slams his faceplates unmercifully into the table in front of him. The mech crumbles to the ground.

A huge, satisfied grin splits Hot Rod's face plates at the mech's expense.

The purple femme turns with a leer at the now unconscious mech by her pedes and he can finally see her face plates. Hot Rod's smile falls from his faceplates as his facial recognition program activates and identifies the purple and black femme.

_Blitzer._

How in the name of Unicron is that femme _still_ online?! Her broken bond and the injuries he had inflicted upon her should have offlined her! Okay... so he clearly underestimated the femme, but it sure as the pit won't happen again.

He turns to his attention back to his friends at the table, "Springer, why don't you take Arcee to see the sights," he says. His tone indicates that it is far from a suggestion.

"That's a great idea!" Springer says, snapping two of his finger digits together. He rises from his seat and turns to Arcee and chatters on about something he wants to check out in the city, completely oblivious to the Decepticons that Hot Rod is now spotting all around them.

_Barricade_.

"What do you think, Cee? It will be fun," Springer says to the femme that is still sitting down.

_Knockout._

"Hot Rod?"

Hot Rod vaguely hears Arcee calling his designation.

_Breakdown._

His battle hardened optics continue to scan the crowd expertly.

_Deadlock_, oh slag.

Hot Rod hears his engine growl in irritation that the cons entered the alley without him noticing, a rookie mistake.

_Skywarp. _

The Decepticons obviously do not know that the Autobots are present based on their smiles of enjoyment and rowdy behavior. Hot Rod scowls as his optics brighten in anger toward the other faction.

_Nighthawk,_ double slag.

"Hot Rod!" Arcee snaps him back to attention. Okay, so maybe he was ignoring her. So what? He looks at the agitated femme with a raised optic ridge and his growing anger at the Cons showing in his expression. Arcee's servo covers his pleadingly, "Please come with us?" she asks, her optics begging him to leave the street fighting scene behind.

The young mech just shakes his helm at the femme's request as he stands, "You two had better get going. It's about to get interesting." He leaves out the fact that there is no way he is going to miss out on a showdown with Decepticons.

Springer and Arcee both turn in their seats, optics searching the crowd of bots to see what Hot Rod does. Spotting the Decepticons, their optics widen in fear. They are not warriors yet, so the two have not seen a Decepticon, save a prisoner or two. Arcee is the closest to being put on active duty, as a scout, and still has a long time to wait to be promoted to warrior class.

Springer rises from his seat quickly and offers the dark blue femme a servo which she takes hesitantly. Springer turns to his flamboyant friend with worry shining in his azure optics. Knowing that there is nothing else he can do besides get Arcee away from the scene, he says with worry, "Please be careful, Hot Rod."

Hot Rod gives him a brilliant smile, "I always am, aren't I?" He gives Springer a light punch on the shoulder and the light green mech frowns, his concern only growing. Hot Rod grins again before Springer can try talking him into coming with and says, "I'll be fine. Meet us at our entry point in a joor." He doesn't give Springer a chance to reply as he turns away from the pair to make his way through the sea of frames.

* * *

Blitzer sits alone at her table, expertly ignoring all the advancements mechs try on her. She stares down at the steel table top feeling empty. Usually these lunar cycles_ (nights)_ out were much more fun, but this is the first time she has been here since her brother's deactivation.

Not only that, but her father is drawing away from her as well. She can feel him slowly shutting her out through their bond. Why? Did she do something wrong? Did he blame her for Extractor's offlining?

Blitzer scowls. He didn't have to, she already knows it was her fault... She should have, could have done something, _anything_, to protect him. He was her baby brother, it was her job.

Someone sits down next to her without a word and Blitzer's temper rises. Mechs just don't take a hint. She is on the verge of snapping at whoever it is when she sees it is Megatron's Second, Nighthawk. Her frame relaxes instantly and she turns to face the handsome, aerial mech.

It doesn't take a genius to see that promoting the mech and demoting a certain seeker was the best decision Megatron has ever made, and the warlord knows it too. Something about Nighthawk is un-Decepticon to Blitzer, thought, and it isn't just her imagination, because he is closely monitored by the Decepticon Communications Officer Soundwave. He's different. Maybe that's a good thing.

Nighthawk observes her quietly and she can almost hear his thoughts. She had lost much the last few cycles_ (days)_and he always took it upon himself to look after her. He wouldn't have to, she is just as tough, and perhaps even tougher than a most of the mechs that call themselves Decepticons. She can handle herself. She doesn't need anyone to protect her.

* * *

Nighthawk frowns at Blitzer's stiffening posture. She is upset. That he can tell.

She has ever right to be. Pit, her brother just offlined! Her father is a glitched up case who feels the need to push her away after everything that has happened. Nighthawk would be willing to bet every credit he's made as a Decepticon that Megatron had something to do with the larger warmonger's recent withdraw from what remains of his family unit. Knowing Blitzer, she probably thinks that everyone blames her for Extractor's offlining. The very thought is absurd. Extractor always thought he was invincible and Nighthawk knows that no one will ever realize just how many times Blitzer saved that insolent fragger on the battlefield.

Extractor always rubbed Nighthawk the wrong way, but Blitzer? Blitzer is a gem. She is the pure, bright spot shining in Galvatron's life, but now that her Creator has visibly shut her out there is nothing stopping him from becoming exactly like, or worst, than Megatron.

Nighthawk admires her. The femme is raising a femlet that isn't even hers in a base full of vicious mechs that would sooner shoot a sparkling then ignore it. Why wouldn't he admire her? There isn't a single mech at the Decepticon bases in Metropolis and Kaon that don't see her for what she is. A warrior, and a fragging good one.

In a way she reminds Nighthawk of his old friend Elita1's sister, Chromia. Rough.

Nighthawk tries to disallow himself to dwell on his long lost friendship with the beautiful noble fembot, but the thoughts seep in unbidden. It was a miracle that they had even been friends in the first place. The middle, femme creation of Sentry, a noble mech in the high council, befriending him, a rag-tag orphan nobody claimed.

Nighthawk attempts to clear his processor from the unwanted thoughts of his long-gone friend. The war tore a rift in their bond that is unamendable. He was a foolish, selfish mechlet when the war began. He did not once think of what it would do to Elita1, then Ariel, if he joined the Decepticons. Not once.

He is pulled from his processing rapidly as his keen optics zone in on familiar faceplates... _Wheeljack?!_ Why would that Wrecker be here all by h- His red optics land on another mech. _Underhand._They seem to pop out of the crowd of bots now as Nighthawk spots Wrecker after Wrecker. Oh, slag. His gaze is captured by a rather young mech making his way toward them. _Hot Rod._

Blitzer is in no way ready to face her brother's offliner.

"Let's go," Nighthawk orders as he turns back to her, only to find her staring at him blankly. Her red optics containing none of their usual life and spunk.

"Why," Blitzer demands to know.

"You are not ready for this," he says simply. With that the black aerial mech rises from his seat and leaves the table, expecting the femme to follow. As he paces away from the table he notices that he hears no pedefalls behind him. Nighthawk glances over his shoulder plating and curses under his vent when he realizes Blitzer is exactly where he left her.

A tri-colored mech stops next to her shoulder and smiles wickedly... Hot Rod.

* * *

"Does Daddy know where you are, femme?" a dark and sinister voice asks from behind Blitzer. She feels chills run up her mainframe but she doesn't turn to face the mech. She is in no mood to be bothered. "Where's your idibot little brother?" the mech continues but his vocals turn slightly taunting and the femme feels her energon begin to boil. She glances at the mech she is getting ready to pummel with a scowl and nearly topples off of her seat in shock and anger.

Hot Rod!

All the fire and spirit Blitzer had been missing in her optics rushes back escorted by fury. She stands up from her seat; her legs hit the chair harshly and causes it to crash to the floor loudly. The whole alley falls silent as they stare at the impending showdown. The mechs and femmes closest to the pair scatter out of the way as Blitzer pulls herself to her full height which is still over two feet shorter than the mech in front of her. Her attempt to frighten him brings a small amused smile on the handsome mech's faceplates and this causes the purple femme to nearly snap under her fury.

This is the mech responsible for Extractor's deactivation, for her father distancing himself from her, and for all her misery!

Before she can lash out at him she feels someone at her shoulder and sees Hot Rod's optics leave her to look expectantly at her backup, daring said mech to do something. She catches sight of a large servo fisting and a flash of dull white paint, Deadlock. Blitzer can see Hot Rod is not intimidated by the mech behind her and she scowls at him. Her scowl deepens as she sees the Wreckers making their way out of the crowd to stand behind their fellow Autobot with cocky, 'let's-tango', smirks on their faceplates.

Breakdown steps up to her other shoulder to lay a servo on her shoulder armor in an attempt to pull her away from the infuriating Autobot mech smirking down at her. She pulls herself out of the Decepticon's grasp and steps toward Hot Rod menacingly until their face plates are barely several inches apart. Her lip plates are pulled down into a hate filled snarl as she fights the sudden urge to spit in his face.

"Murderer!" Blitzer hisses venomously as she begins backing away from him allowing Deadlock to position himself protectively between them.

"That's real fresh coming from you Con. I mean, considering what you just did to Praxus," Hot Rod says in false laxness to feebly conceal the hatred in his words.

The femme to stop in her tracks, her frame shaking with anger.

"The city wouldn't have taken so long to raze if it weren't for that femme," Skywarp snaps disgustedly distracting the Autobots from Blitzer's distressed state she is entering. "Then we wouldn't have to waste so much time tracking down those pit-spawned escapees," he mutters quietly, to himself mostly.

Blitzer has to squeeze her optics shut against the barrage of images playing through her vision at the mention of the destroyed city. Her spark clenches with guilt and sorrow as the many faceplates of the ones she offlined flash rapidly through her processor. The Autobot is right. She is the murderer! She opens her optics and pushes the unwanted memory files back into their well-guarded section. The screams of the blameless slowly fade from her audio receptors and her cold Decepticon views slaughter her sentiments and she continues to walk away with no hint of the regret she was just feeling.

"I hope you're haunted by the innocent sparks you snuffed for the rest of your miserable online cycles_ (days)_, you glitch," Hot Rod snarls, losing his cool façade and taking a threatening step toward her.

Deadlock moves to cut the Autobot off, but Breakdown beats him to the punch. The bulky, dark blue mech steps in front of the larger mech challengingly, but at the same time Bulkhead cuts in shoving his broad chest against Breakdown, jostling him backwards. The Con's features darken considerably and he pushes the green Wrecker backwards roughly with a leer etched on his faceplates.

"Get outta my face, scrap ton!" Breakdown growls with immense detestation radiating from his vocals, the femme could tell he is recalling the long history he had with the mech he is facing and it is clear he still thinks he has old scores to settle.

Bulkhead regains his footing and stops the other Wreckers from advancing on the con with a raised four digit servo. "He's mine," the dark green Wrecker mutters to his brothers-in-arms.

"Wait!" a loud voice calls from the energon bar.

All optics turn toward its owner and a small mech rushes in-between Breakdown and Bulkhead.

"The only fights that occur here take place in the ring!" the tiny, blue mech shouts, pointing toward the crude 'ring' drawn on the alley floor. "There will be no cheap, underhand Decepticon or Wrecker tricks! This will be fair!" he yells pointing at the two mechs facing off, who are all but ignoring him. "And only one fight at a time or I will throw the lot of you out!" He gestures his servos wildly toward rest of the bots around him, including the Autobot and Decepticon sympathizers in the crowd who have commenced to glaring at each other.

"What do you say, Butthead?" Breakdown asks with a gleeful glint in his yellow optics.

"Bring it on, turn coat," Bulkhead jabs with malice dripping from his vocals.

Breakdown growls and, not even bothering going to the 'ring', he tackles Bulkhead to the ground. A roar rips through the crowd as they press in to begin yelling words of encouragement to their favorite and placing bets.

Blitzer shoves her way to the front of the mob to get a better view of the fight.

She sees the two mechs violently exchanging blows, hatred etched clearly on their features. But there is something more, Blitzer realizes, something deeper, and it is toeing on the line of betrayal. Each mech is acting as though the other betrayed him. _That's rather twisted, _the purple and black femme thinks with a scowl.

This is also rather stupid. She brought the Decepticons here for a little get-away from everything, under her father and Megatron's radar. At this rate they're all going to be thrown into a brig and will have to sit there until their masters come and pick them up!

Blitzer winces as Bulkhead lands a hard punch to Breakdown's jaw hinge. The Decepticon quickly retaliates with a jab to his adversary's gears. This causes the green Autobot to duple over in pain, but he still manages to roll away from the kick the con tries to land to his faceplates. Despite the green bot's massive size he manages to leap up off the ground smoothly. Bulkhead runs at Breakdown and grabs him roughly. He lifts his foe off the ground with a strained growl and tosses him into the crowd.

Mechs and femmes scatter in a mad scramble to get from under the large flying Con.

Breakdown lands harshly in the crowd, causing bright orange sparks to fly around him as he screeches to a stop. An angry yell comes from under the light blue con and Blitzer doesn't even have to look at the unfortunate spark to know who it is.

"Breakdown!" a mech's voice hollers indignantly, "My finish!"

Breakdown leaps off of his superior with a wince on his faceplates; he knows Knockout values his finish above anything else in the universe.

A few snickers sound from the crowd and Blitzer detects them coming from the Wreckers.

"Breakdown!" Underhand says tauntingly, "Now you've upset your fembot!"

Knockout's helm snaps to look at the Wrecker his optics flashing angrily and Blitzer almost groans.

"What did you call me?" Knockout hisses, his fury mounting as he walks up to the scarlet Autobot. He comes to a stop in front of Underhand, servos planted angrily on his hips, showing no fear even though he is missing a good three feet on the Wrecker.

As Breakdown and Bulkhead pause their needless pounding to watch their comrades' tense encounter, Blitzer decides to take the opportunity to save them all from brig time and the wrath of their leaders. She quickly runs between Knockout and Underhand placing both of her small, slender servos on the Decepticon medic's chest, pushing backwards lightly. She was taller than him so it wouldn't be hard to hold him back forcefully if it came to it. Hopefully it didn't come to it.

"Knockout, stop. It's not worth it," she says lowly, but the Wrecker's words drown out hers.

"You heard me," Underhand says spitefully, daring the Decepticon speedster to do something.

"Knockout," Blitzer's vocals transform from a gentle coaxing to that of a hard, no nonsense superior. "Stand down," she orders with her optics sharp. The medic scowls deeply at her, but slowly turns away in stiff obedience.

Blitzer catches sight of Nighthawk's impressed optics as she follows closely behind Knockout.

: Well done, femme, : Nighthawk says with a chuckle through a private comm link. : Way to prove me wrong. It appears you were ready for this. :

Blitzer ignores the comment as a cold fury courses swiftly through her energon lines with one look to her left. _Him..._ Her helm snaps forward again as she tries without avail to rid her processor from the sight.

Hot Rod stands with his leg struts braced apart, arms crossed over his chest, and a pleased-as-pit smirk on his features.

He is happy at her pain? What kind of sick, sadistic mech is he?! He does not regret offlining Extractor! He is happy about it!

Blitzer feels her frame vibrating from an untamable fury mounting in her core! Her servos ball into trembling fists and she stops short.

Nighthawk's smile slowly falls from his features and he vents out softly, "Frag."

* * *

_I hope you like it. Read and review if you please, and if you want. Reviews make me happy. Reviews are like puppies and kittens kind of happiness for me._


	10. Chapter 9

_Yay! I got another chapter edited (to the best of my extent) and updated! As all of you may be guessing, this is getting to be a kind of do what I can when I can sort of thing. As it turns out, summer is even more busy than winter... who'd have thunk it?_

_I hope you all like it. _

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

Blitzer swings with all the strength in her cables and feels a morbid satisfaction as her servo makes harsh contact onto Hot Rod's faceplates!

The large Autobot wasn't expecting the femme's course of action and the blow sends him sprawling backwards. He lands on his back harshly, sparks flying from beneath him as his metal grates across the street. A mere astro-second_ (1/2 an earth sec.)_ later he uses his momentum to flip himself over his helm and lands on his pedes with his agility not to be missed. His lip plates curve into a smile as he comes to a stop on his servos and pedes. A small trickle of blue energon snakes from his mouthplates and his smile only broadens as his glossa flicks out to the small leak. His faceplates darken and his blue optics become almost white in contained rage.

As Blitzer stands there with her servo still clenched, she feels the earlier chill return to her lithe frame as she realizes she has only ever seen that look on a thwarted Megatron.

Without any more prompting the alley bursts into a flurry of fists and cursing.

An Autobot sympathizer lunges at Blitzer in an attempt to punish a menace of his favorite faction, but she only has to grab the untrained mech by his shoulder armor and throw him against the wall to avoid his wild swing, with barely a grunt of effort for her rough action. Glancing around the mayhem, Blitzer sees Breakdown and Bulkhead in an arm lock, both mechs' frames shaking with strain.

Someone grabs her from behind causing the pain relays around the still healing wound that Hot Rod had inflicted upon her stomach to sting angrily. Blitzer wrenches her right arm out of the mech's grip with a feral snarl and slams her elbow into the perpetrator's faceplates without mercy. The mech's helm snaps sharply backward and he lets go of the femme to fall to the ground in a heap. The purple and black Decepticon fembot whirls to face her attacker but finds him already unconscious at her pedes, much to her satisfaction.

A stray punch slams into the side of Blitzer's helm right over her audio receptor, causing it to ring loudly in protest. She turns to her new adversary only to find that they, whomever it was, was already pulled into a knock-'em-down, drag-'em-out with someone else.

This is ridiculous, Blitzer realizes as she spots Knockout jumping from table to table, dodging the servos of mechs trying to grab him and blubbering in fright for his finish. The tall femme heads in the finicky medic's direction, hitting anyone who gets in front of her before shoving them back into the fray to get pummeled by who knows who. She'd better get the medic out of here unscathed, or the next time she needs to be patched up he might not comply. Either that or she might find herself with an 'upgrade'. Not the desirable kind.

Just before can she reach Knockout's position someone shoves her from behind, sending her stumbling into a reddish orange mech. She gasps in discomfort as the sudden movement causes pain to flare in her old 'Hot Rod injury'. She staggers off of the mech and steadies herself against a nearby table as the damage in her side demands for attention. The mech she had fallen onto is a Wrecker, designated Pyro, if her facial recognition is correct.

Pyro uprights himself from their collision, spots her, and then grins crazily at her. Blitzer fights the sudden urge to laugh through her discomfort at the mech in front of her. He acts so much like Skywarp; a little cuckoo in the processor. She registers a slight widening of Pyro's optics before he jabs at her with his fist! Blitzer ducks the Wrecker's lightening-like hit that was aimed for her faceplates, causing him to punch someone behind her solidly.

"Pyro, what the frag!?" a mech bellows angrily.

Pyro's faceplates turn slightly sheepish but he doesn't stop to apologize to whoever he had just hit. Instead he swings again at the Decepticon femme. Blitzer blocks his blow with her forearm and then lands three swift punches to his chest that sends Pyro staggering backwards and into Nighthawk, who gladly takes over in handling the wacko Wrecker.

Two mechs charge her from opposite sides with the intent of smashing Blitzer between them. She doesn't recognize either of them attempting this dumb-aft move as Wreckers. She almost has to laugh at their stupidity as she executes a perfect backflip at the last possible nano-klik_ (second)_ and the mechs slam into one another, crumpling to the ground.

The femme grins to herself as she launches on a table top next to Knockout. The medic's optics grow in size and he screeches in horror with his claws coming up to protect his already scratched paintjob before he recognizes his superior.

"Sorry, Doc," Blitzer says with a wince, trying to apologize for bringing him with and for the scratches on his finish at the same time.

Knockout quickly assumes his rant stance, with his one servo on his hip joint and the other pointing a long, clawed finger digit into her faceplates. Before he can begin shouting Blitzer grabs the small speedster by the armor plating on his back and, twirling twice to give herself more of a leverage, she tosses him to the roof of a building structure on side of the wild alley with the pernickety medic yelling the whole way. Knockout stands up indignantly on the edge of the roof and begins brushing himself off while muttering about having to buff everything all over again.

Blitzer tries not to laugh at the picture, knowing that the medic would hear her and never forgiver her. She regrets asking Knockout if he wanted to come this lunar cycle_ (night)_, she knew from the beginning that the red mech did not like street fights. No, street racing is more his scene. The femme makes a note to take Knockout street racing in the near future to apologize more efficiently for this lunar cycle_ (night)_ gone to the Pit.

Someone crashes into the table she is standing on and falls heavily onto it next to her pedes with a curse. Blitzer swiftly whirls in case it is an Autobot and finds Breakdown jumping back up and diving onto Bulkhead's backstruts. Blitzer turns from the pair, Breakdown can handle himself.

Her optics narrow swiftly as she spots Hot Rod fighting across the alley, easily taking on four Decepticon sympathizers at the same time. The tri-colored Autobot punches one in the gears, sending him backwards into another mech and they both slam into the alley wall. Hot Rod grabs a large steel table next to him by one of the four legs and slams it into his two remaining adversaries. They both follow their friends' previous example and crash into the opposite wall. Blitzer can see the sneer on his lip plates form from where she stands and her frame trembles in anger at the mech.

She will offline him! And with her bare servos if she has to!

Hot Rod's optics turn back to the ensuing frenzy of fist fights and zone in on Blitzer. His helm cock to the side arrogantly, and a crooked smile makes its way onto his lip components daring her to come and face him.

All others forgotten, the femme immediately accepts the silent challenge. She leaps off of the tabletop and charges at the Autobot, dodging stray punches and flying frames. A dark blue Wrecker, Topspin, lands at her pedes slightly dazed. Blitzer doesn't stop. She clears him easily in one stride. He isn't the one she's after. In the corner of her optic she sees the Wrecker leap to his pedes searching for his next target, then jumping onto Skywarp's back with a crazy squawk.

Wheeljack stumbles into Blitzer's path and shakes his processor clear from a wild punch to the helm. His wretched, blue optics find her and a charming smile comes to his lip components.

"Maybe you should go join the other femmes, sweetspark," he leers with a nod of his finned helm. Blitzer looks in the general direction he indicated and spots all the fembots grouped at the mouth of the alley shouting encouragement to their favorite mechs.

"Like Pit!" Blitzer yells at the Wrecker above the ruckus before she punches the mech upside the jaw, laying him out flat onto his back struts on the alley floor. Wheeljack sits up with a groan and smiles weirdly up at Blitzer. Without warning the Wrecker launches up and tackles the slender femme, causing them both to tumble across the ground. Blitzer lunges up with nitrous oxide buzzing through her systems, but finds Wheeljack and Deadlock have now commenced to punching the slag out of one another.

She growls in annoyance. _Mechs!_

"Boo!" a menacing, yet playful voice sounds behind her, next to her audio receptor.

Blitzer registers the evil tone and whirls, throwing a wild punch as she turns! The mech easily dodges with a smirk coloring his faceplates that he was able to come up behind her unnoticed. Blitzer quickly attacks again with a left hook, but again Hot Rod dodges. A frustrated growl escapes her vocalizer as she jabs at his stupid smile and misses. She falls back a few feet, suddenly realizing that he is purposely trying to wear her out. He wants to play that game? She'll oblige.

Blitzer waits for him to make his move as she stands slightly crouched with clenched servos ready for anything the mech will throw at her. A curious smile comes to the Autobot's faceplates and he chuckles at her sudden switch of tactics. His optic ridge raises and he begins casually walking around her, forcing her to lose her fighting stance and follow him in a circle so that her back isn't exposed to him. Frag that mech!

Hot Rod pauses midstride with his optics even whiter than before. He bends slightly backwards at his waist with the same slagging grin still on his lip plates, looking pointedly at the three weld marks on her stomach. He purses his lips and straightens, looking back up to her optics. "Nasty scars," he observes with his vocals slightly mocking. Hot Rod's smile widens even more and he asks with false disbelief causing a rise in his vocal pitch, "Did I do that?"

"Frag you!" Blitzer snarls as she tries to attack the infuriating mech again, who only dodges her once more with smooth effortless grace and making no advancements of his own.

"You never answered my first question," Hot Rod says as she ceases her attempts, trying not to let him control her. Blitzer's optics narrow and a growl from her engine rumbles her chestplates as Hot Rod asks, "does Daddy know you're here?" She scowls at him but keeps herself from attacking. That's what he wants, she tells herself. Hot Rod grins at her forceful restraint with his glossa pressed between his denta and his optic ridge raised. "He doesn't," the Autobot answers himself and the chuckles, "So you're not the sweet, little, obedient femme everyone thinks you are?" Hot Rod's optics sensually fall halfway closed; his grin goes crooked in a flirtatious way, to Blitzer it makes him look even more evil, and he hisses, "I can live with that."

Blitzer's gaze widens with indignation at what the mech is implying and with a feline-like yowl she swings at him again, wishing like mad that she had her swords so she could carve him into ribbons. Instead of dodging her blow, Hot Rod stops her fist with a harsh servo grabbing onto her forearm, his bright optics never leaving hers. An uneasy feeling creeps its way into her spark and she suddenly hates the warm feel of the mech's servo on her.

Blitzer quickly clenches her free fist and jabs it into the mech's gears.

Hot Rod doubles over with a small grunt escaping his vocalizer and Blitzer follows her punch with a swift kick aimed directly between the tri-colored mech's legs. Her pointed pede makes harsh contact with Hot Rod's ball-bearings with a loud clang. Hot Rod's optics widen. One of those freakishly white orbs twitch and a squeak slips from between his lip plates. He falls to his knee plates in front of her with a loud painful moan as he releases her arm. Taking advantage of her adversary's vulnerable position, Blitzer grabs his helm in both her servos and slams her forehelm onto his, causing the mech to fall onto his back.

Blitzer stumbles away, her helm throbbing. That was not the best idea... Now she has a splitting processor-ache to add to all her other pain filled parts. She sees Hot Rod slowly getting up and this time the uneasy feeling in her spark is replaced by fear as she sees the mech is done playing with her. His grin is replaced by a sneer and his optics hold the same hate she had seen there barely three cycles_ (days)_ ago when he had offlined Extractor.

Before the mech can advance on her a shrill cry comes from one of the femmes at the mouth of the alley, "Enforcers!"

Blitzer reacts instantly to the femme's alarm and sprints out of the alley. Two other mechs are running closely behind her and she identifies their energy signatures as Nighthawk and Deadlock. In her peripheral vision she glimpses Hot Rod scaling the wall of the building quite nimbly for someone with the bulk of his frame. Disappointment fills her and she wishes that he would fall and get caught by the Tyger Pax Enforcers. He doesn't.

She will _make_ him fall! It seems like a good idea in her revenge filled processor so she acts on it.

"Split up!" Blitzer yells at the two mechs following her. Nighthawk immediately ducks into an alley and Deadlock disappears down another leaving no indication that they were ever there, save for their fading energy signatures. As soon as the two S.I.C.s are gone Blitzer latches onto the wall and begins climbing swiftly. She digs her finger digits into the oddly weak structure and launches onto the rooftop in a crouch. Her red optics quickly scan the area and she spots her target leaping from building to building few rooftops away. She can tell he is playing with his pursuers, keeping them close enough to keep their interest but staying far enough away to keep his identity a secret.

The purple and black fembot snorts. Oh please! Like his ostentatious paint job wouldn't give him away.

She sprints after the retreating mech and the enforcers. Hot Rod make a quick change of rooftops bringing him unsuspectingly closer to Blitzer. A smirk comes to the femme's faceplates, this shouldn't be too hard. Her grin widens as she spots several armor chains with newly washed civilian plating hanging by the highest apartment windows next to the roof tops. Primus must be smiling on her this lunar cycle_ (night)_!

Reaching down, Blitzer snatches two of the chains, pulling them roughly out of the wall. She snaps the chains swiftly, sending the armor careening off of her newly acquired weapons and clattering onto the streets below. Looping the chains around her arms she sprints after Hot Rod again. Blitzer runs stealthily over the buildings, not drawing attention from the Autobot mech or the enforcers chasing him. This is going to be too perfect.

As Blitzer draws abreast of the tri-colored Autobot on the opposite rooftop she drops out her chains. At the same time she lunges up in a position to strike and Hot Rod glances over just in time to see her lithe frame being silhouetted by the larger of Cybertron's sister moons. The femme's legs are drawn up toward her chest, upper frame in a crouched position with her arms placed slightly behind her holding the two snaking chains that whiplash through the air.

Blitzer sees the mech's optics widen comically as she snaps the chain forward, releasing them both at the same time. They wrap neatly around Hot Rod's pedes with a sharp clang of metal colliding with metal, tangling up and causing him to fall indignantly onto his faceplates. He doesn't stop there, no, that wouldn't have been near as satisfying. Instead, his frame gains speed and continues rolling off the side of the roof and, with a series of loud crashes, onto the street below.

Blitzer's faceplates split in a huge grin and she clenches her fist in victory, "Yes!" Okay, that hoot was very immature of her, but she didn't care. He suffered and it made her happy.

"There, on the roof!" she hears an enforcer yell and she spins to see a blackened shadow pointing at her from across the gap of the buildings. Oh, slag! Blitzer visibly lets her shoulders and lip plates sag at her stupidity before she takes off running for her spark. Projectiles are shot across the space between the structures and before the femme can even blink an enforcer is standing at the edge of the roof.

He is young, and inexperienced. He charges her and she skids to a slower pace then ducks under his right hook and dodges his left before grabbing his arm and throwing him over her shoulder into the streets below, never fully stopping. She can hear him squalling all the way down and then hit the ground bodily with a grunt. Judging by the curses he is fine.

Be more careful now, Blitzer tells herself as she runs onward, Enforcers never make the same mistake twice. Even as the thought crosses her processor the air around her charges with electricity and from the corner of her optical vision she sees a tiny disk flying straight toward her! Small fingers of electricity grapple around it and crackles as it spirals toward her. Reacting on instinct, Blitzer falls to her knees and leans back until her back struts are scrapping the roof and she passes harmlessly under the little flying disk. It was something to stun her systems. Of that much she is sure. Back onto her pedes in an instant, the femme leaps to another building with another stasis inducing disk flying just past her stomach!

She needs to get off the rooftops.

The purple and black femme stops at the next gap in between the old buildings, braces her servos and pedes on either side of the small alley space, and slides down in a flurry of sparks. She sprints to the street only to run back into the alley at the sight of the twenty plus enforcers combing the area over her planned path. Blitzer dashes through the narrow pathway and checks her energy readers in case an enforcer saw her and decided to give chase.

Nope.

A grin comes to her faceplates as she nears the end of the alley and flits across the street into the next one. This was far too- she hits something solid. Her speed is reduced to an absolute zero and she falls backwards onto her aft with all air leaving her vents in a rush. The femme shakes the dizziness from her processor and looks up into the infuriating faceplates of none other than…Hot Rod.

"But how did you-" Blitzer's exclamation is cut short as the mech grabs her by her back armor and tosses her back up on the roof. The femme lands harshly on her skid plating with sparks flying around her. She is about to turn and yell obscenities down at the mech when she notices she is surrounded by four enforcers. They are all staring at her with their stun guns activated at pointed at all point on her frame.

Blitzer laughs sheepishly and offers the mechs around her a broad, innocent-as-can-be, grin.

No one returns her smile.

Blitzer stands up with a sigh and offers her servos to them in defeat.

As the largest mech approaches with stasis cuffs in servos she grabs his arm! Twirling around expertly she breaks his elbow strut over her shoulder armor at the same time she kicks the next closest in the chest sending him crashing into the alley floor below. Pushing the squawking mech with the broken elbow strut away from her, she runs to the next mech. Grabbing his arm as well, she nimbly climbs her way up to his shoulders and flips her frame to the roof top pulling the mech down after her. Leaping up, she punches the downed enforcer in the faceplate, effectively knocking him out. Blitzer whirls then with her red optics scanning for the last enforcer, only to find him gone.

Well, that is weird. Enforcers aren't usually scared off so easily.

"Wimp," Blitzer mutters as she turns back to the unconscious enforcer, who is the only one of the original four still on the roof. Smiling to herself she shoves him off the roof tops as well. He hits pretty hard and she almost feels bad. Almost.

It's time for her to leave before more enforcers show up.

Blitzer's parts begin to ache once more as the nitrous oxide boost slowly wears off her systems. She walks to the edge of the roof and is preparing to climb down when something moves behind her! She whirls to face it and catches a glimpse of the missing enforcer before something slams into her shoulder! Before she can even blink, much less curse, her systems jolt and shudder violently. Instantly into stasis, she dives helm long off her high perch and into the street below.

* * *

"Hey Blitzer," a voice cuts through the blackness of her processor, "Wakey, wakey!" this is followed by several light smacks to her cheek plating. She slowly onlines her optics to look into the grinning faceplates of Nighthawk and Deadlock. A scowl touches her lip components, those two are like two scraplets in a pod these cycles_ (days)_.

"What happened?" Blitzer asks holding her aching helm.

"You took a dive off the roof," Nighthawk says casually with a smirk that makes her want to hit him, "For a moment we thought the enforcers had you."

"And why do they not?" the femme asks sitting up. Glancing around, she sees they are just outside of Tyger Pax.

"You have your clumsy, Autobot friend to thank," Deadlock answers, "The enforcers saw him and decided to give chase and come back for helpless, little you later."

"I'll be sure to thank him," Blitzer says sarcastically, with an annoyed roll of her optics. She takes the servo that Deadlock offers to her and stands up with a grunt. "We should probably head back," she mutters. Both mechs wordlessly agree with her and they quickly transform to their vehicle mode before parting ways with Blitzer and Deadlock speeding off toward Darkmount and some much need recharge, and Nighthawk heading back toward Kaon.

The trip back is horrible. Every bit of her frame aches. And just when she thinks things can't get worse when they try to sneak back into the gates of Darkmount, originally Metropolis, Galvatron and his head of security is waiting on them. Blitzer nearly groans out loud at the sight. She and Deadlock are so busted! Her recently acquired bumps are really starting to hurt and they're making her a bit moody.

"What are you doing?" Galvatron asks sounding more like her father than he had for cycles_ (days)_.

"I decided we needed a little fun," Blitzer says sheepishly as she grimaces inwardly at her creator's angry faceplates and the aching new and old wounds covering her mainframe.

"Fun?" Galvatron growls lowly then looks at Deadlock, who is standing slightly to the femme's right. "You," the warlord says, pointing an accusing sharp finger digit at his second, "planned this."

Deadlock's optics narrow in confusion and he stares at his master in all sincerity. "I'm sorry, my lord, I do not understand," he says, bowing his helm low at the infuriated mech to appease his master's wrath.

"Skywarp told the Autobots about the survivors of Praxus!" Galvatron roars angrily.

"What?" Blitzer asks, confused as well now.

"Now the Autobots will be searching for survivors too!" Galvatron steps menacingly toward Deadlock, who doesn't back away or show any fear which only serves to make the warlord angrier.

"Even if Skywarp told the Autobots about the survivors of Praxus, I fail to see how that is Deadlock's fault!" Blitzer snaps at her creator, fury blazing bright in her optics. She meets her father's fearsome gaze without so much as a flinch and says firmly, "I'm the one that planned to go to Tyger Pax!" Silence stretches between the bots with father and daughter glaring harshly at one another.

Galvatron finally pulls back and nods his helm in acceptance that his Second is still loyal. "I will take your word for it," he says in a much more civil tone. His optics don't lose their hardness though, and he growls, "But that still doesn't change the fact that that idibot, Skywarp, told our enemies about the survivors."

Blitzer sighs in her growing fatigue and waves her servo as she turns away, "Compromise and take advantage of the situation present." The answer is so obvious, its like a blaring sign, she muses to herself as she heads down the hall.

Blitzer stalks through the base toward her quarters wincing at her injuries. She begins to wonder what had started her creator's distrust toward Deadlock; she had even asked her friend several times but he always laughs and shrugs it off in a 'no-big-deal' manner. She can still remember the first time she met the mech he had nearly been offlined by her father on the basis of similar accusations. That had been before Darkmount was built over the ruins of Metropolis. Something must have happened during that time to cause such feelings of mistrust to run between her father unit and Deadlock, and, whatever it was, had obviously occurred before she joined the ranks.

She often finds herself worrying about Deadlock. What would she do if Galvatron actually found something suspicious and got rid of his Second? What would she do without the mech? She was always close to Extractor because she felt it was her duty to keep him safe since their Carrier was no longer around, but with Deadlock? They looked out for each other. She felt closer to him than she ever had with Extractor. That didn't make her siblings deactivation any less painful, she thinks with a growl as her processor swings back toward that wretched Autobot. He will pay for what he has done.

As she reaches her private quarters, she enters almost dragging her finger digits on the floor in exhaustion from the events of the past few cycles_ (days)_. She scans the room to find Tempestfire deep in recharge on her small berth next to Blitzer's larger one. She walks over to the small youngling and plants a small kiss over her audio.

What would either of them do without Deadlock?

Blitzer crawls onto her own berth with the unpleasant wondering and before she is carried off into recharge she comms the mech.

: Tip toe, Lock, : she warns sleepily.

: Got it, Blitzer, : he promises and she can hear the smile in his 'voice'.

* * *

A tired bunch of Autobots enter the nearly empty rec room after gaining admission from the southern entrance that one of the Wreckers, Leadfoot, was guarding. He was not very happy that he had missed the excursion, but Hot Rod made it up to him by telling him he'd consider taking the red mech with next time given he wasn't back out on the Wreckers' outpost or he wasn't in the brig. Leadfoot accepted the young mech's terms and promised not to squeal on them.

Each bot grabs a medium grade cube to refuel so as to not fall on their faceplates going about the cycle_ (day)_.

"You were surely sent from Primus himself," Pyro says to Hot Rod in total satisfaction as he leans back in his seat happily.

"That's what everyone keeps telling me," Hot Rod says smoothly with a cocky grin.

Arcee scoffs at him, highly annoyed but everyone ignores her and begins sharing their stories of the previous lunar cycle_ (night)_. Arcee leaves almost instantly, not able to bear the mechs trying to outdo each other with their bravado stories. Surprisingly Hot Rod falls completely silent, clearly not hearing a word the Wreckers were saying, thoughtfully fingering his empty energon cube.

"You hit me!" Topspin is hissing at Pyro as everyone around them hoots with laughter, even Springer chuckles a bit.

"I'm sorry," Pyro says with a laugh and his servos raised in defense, "what can I say? That femme was fast!"

"Wait," Hot Rod's voice cuts through their conversation and all their optics find him. The young mech says, "Skywarp."

"Ah, yes!" Pyro exclaims instantly, "Do I have a story about that me-"

"No," Hot Rod interrupts, "Skywarp said that they wouldn't have to be wasting so much time searching for escapees if it weren't for some femme," the young mech pauses waiting for the gravity of the situation to grab ahold of the others sitting around the table.

"So that means," Springer exclaims sitting straight up, "there are survivors from the city of Praxus out there! Probably injured and holed up somewhere because they're too afraid to move and get caught by Cons! We have to tell Optimus Prime immediately!" the young, green and white bot cries as he leaps from his seat.

"You can go," Hot Rod says casually, "I'll just stay here."

Springer scoffs with his optic ridges rising, "And leave me to take all the glory for figuring this out? That's unlike you."

Hot Rod merely shrugs at his friend and offers him an innocent smile. "What can I say?" he says, "It's your turn to shine, buddy."

"Ok," Springer says with a shrug, "if you insist." He walks purposefully out of the rec room to find the Prime and report Hot Rod's discovery.

Hot Rod can't help but feel a little remorse in his spark as he watches Springer depart, but it quickly disappears as he smirks. He can almost see it now. Springer will tell Optimus his discovery, his brother will immediately send search parties out, but Prowl, being Prowl, will ask Springer how he had acquired the information. Springer will tell them, albeit very shamefaced, where he had been throughout the lunar cycle_ (night)_ and get thrown in the brig.

The Wreckers watch the young green mech leave before they turn their amused optics to Hot Rod.

"That was low," Bulkhead mutters incredulously, but everyone else hoots with laughter.

"No," Underhand says with a grin, "that was genius!"

Hot Rod shrugs, "It's his first offence, he'll barely get a cycle_ (day)_ in the brig."

"Gotta hand it to ya kid," Wheeljack laughs slapping a servo on the younger mech's shoulder armor, "you know your way around." Hot Rod smirks and gets up to leave

"Where are you going?" Bulkhead asks, looking up at him from his seat.

"To find Bee," Hot Rod answers, "besides the way the last mission that I was on went, I doubt they're going to send me out this time," he says chuckling as he walks away to find the little yellow sparkling. He would never admit it out loud but over the course of the few cycles_ (days)_ he had been around Bumblebee, the little Bug grew on him and he was quite fond of the sparkling.

He strides up to the black weapon specialists chamber's door and expertly hacks the codes. Since it is so early in the cycle_ (day)_ the only ones out of recharge are probably Optimus, Ultra Magnus, and Prowl, not to mention the guard duty of course.

Hot Rod glances around the darkened room and sees the sparkling sitting awake on Ironhide's chest; the large mech is still in recharge, but the sparkling is unmoving, looking around the room. Hot Rod finds himself highly amused that the hardened weapons specialist would let the little sparking recharge on his berth. He will have to laugh about that later he decides as the Bug spots him. A large smile splits the young squirt's faceplates, but before he can voice his joy Hot Rod gently places a finger digit to his own lip plates to indicate they must be quiet, silencing whatever reaction was tipping the sparkling's vocalizer. Hot Rod sure doesn't want his mentor waking up to him stealing Bug away from under his watch for the second time in barely an orn (week), because he would be peeved. The tri-colored mech silently lifts the yellow mechlet off of his guardian's chest and sneaks out the door with the flailing sparkling in his arms.

Mission accomplished.

Hot Rod avoids the rec room since he isn't in the mood to deal with any femmes, and heads for the training center instead with Bug in servo. As he enters the main training hanger he sees Sonic-blaster and his twin charges are the only ones in the vicinity. The young mech with the yellow sparkling comes to a stop next to the slightly larger S.I.C.

"Sonic," Hot Rod says with a grin as he watches the two split-spark femme twins sparring with one another. He will readily admit that both Torpedo and Firecracker have come a long way in their training since they had been found abandoned on the streets of Iacon, but what is to be expected? They are being trained by Sonic-blaster and Ironhide.

"Hey kid," the Second answers, but keeps his keen optics on his charges. He hums as he watches them waylay one another with all the ferocity of grown warriors. "How's it been going?" the black and green mech asks Hot Rod with hardly any intrest. Hot Rod opens his mouthplates to reply when Sonic-blaster cuts him off, "Wait, stop," the bigger mech calls to the femmelings and walks out onto the mat with the twins. "Firecracker, don't throw all your energy into attacks like that, you need to wait and listen, watch your opponent. Search for openings and weaknesses. Torpedo you cannot rely solely on defense, to win a battle. You must be willing to strike first if the opportunity presents itself. Okay?"

Both the femmelings nod and smile at their guardian before they look at each other. Mischievous grins bloom on their young, cute faceplates. Both younglings suddenly give their best imitation of a fierce war cry and charge at their guardian, working together they both ram into Sonic-blaster and struggle to take him down in a wild wrestling match. All Hot Rod and Bumblebee can see is a mess of legs and arms as the twins succeed in pinning their flopping teacher to the mat. Firecracker and Torpedo giggle wildly at their guardian's predicament and Sonic-blaster is mock yelling in horror and hooting in laughter as his charges begin tickling the sensitive wiring under his arms.

"No! Stop! I will best you," Sonic-blaster threatens through his bellows of laughter

Hot Rod laughs out loud as he watches the three bots rolling around on the mat. He remembers when he was the femmlings' age and doing the very same thing with his creator, his brothers, or sometimes even Sonic-blaster. Some bots never change.

After several kliks_ (1 klik=1.2 earth min.)_ of nonsense Sonic-blaster gets up off the mat and brings their lesson back into order. He gives both femmelings some pointers before he turns to look at the mech beside him and a grin appears instantly as he see Bumblebee in Hot Rod's open servos. "Does Ironhide know you have him?" the Second in Command asks as he scuffs the mechlet affectionately on the helm with a gentle finger digit.

Before Hot Rod can even open his lip plates to answer the training hanger doors slide back revealing a very angry weapons specialist.

"Hot Rod," Ironhide says almost calmly, his voice dangerously low.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Sonic-blaster answers himself, discreetly taking a step away from the mech beside him.

"Hey, Hide!" Hot Rod says jovially, "Finally wake up?" A growl erupts from Ironhide's vocals as he stalks toward the young mech. "What?" the tri-colored mech asks innocently, "I just thought I'd volunteer to sparkling-sit for the cycle_ (day)_."

"What makes you think I need a sparkling-sitter for the cycle_ (day)_?" Ironhide asks suspiciously.

Hot Rod shrugs nonchalantly, "Just a hunch," he says grinning. If his timing is right Prowl will be comming all the high ranking officers soon to tell them about the Praxus survivors. He smiles to himself as he sees both Ironhide and Sonic-blaster's optics dim slightly as they listen intently to a private comm. Hot Rod raises his optic ridge at Ironhide with a slag eating grin on his lip components. The black mech almost growls at him but turns away toward the training hanger's exit.

"Anything happens to him and I'll feed you to scraplets," the weapons specialist threatens over his shoulder.

Hot Rod grins at his former mentor broadly and salutes him in almost mocking formality.

"Girls, Hot Rod will finish your lesson," Sonic-blaster tells the twins before he follows Ironhide out. He pauses with a look toward Hot Rod then at the two femmelings. He points a finger digit at all of them, including Bumblebee and Hot Rod, "Behave."

As the door slams shut Hot Rod scoffs and looks down at the two small femmes. "Like that will ever happen," he says with a roll of his optics, earning a grin from both femmelings. "Now," he begins, using Bug to gesture around, "Lesson number one: How to recover extremely sensitive objects without being discovered. Our first target is designated Wheeljack..."

* * *

_Oh, Hot Rod. You are teaching them young._

_**Attention:** I've been curious as to if people know exactly how many OCs are in my stories. There are a bunch, as I have just realized. Quite a bunch... and if any one of you can name more than **seven** then I will send you via private messaging a sneak peak of chapter ten. A tiny little teaser of the action that is to ensue soon. (There are a lot more than seven, but I decided to be nice and make it an attainable goal.)_

_That's it for this update. R and R. It makes me ecstatic!_


	11. Chapter 10

_And I've actually got this thing done! Que applause! I'm quite pleasantly surprised that I did. My internet went kaput for a few hours today when I was editing and I thought for a while that is wasn't going to come back. Obviously it did._

_Anyway, this whole first part is a direct cause of something that happen in my first story, Til All Are One: No Matter the Cost, Chapter Eighteen. So if you never read it and you want to or you just want to check it out again to refresh your memory then feel free._

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

Jazz scans his surroundings and squints his optics as the burning sun's rays penetrate through his blue visor. The heat causes his cooling systems to start running harder than normal as he checks the area for any Praxian survivors. His search team is nearby, somewhere. Everyone opted to split up so that they could search more places faster. Jazz had decided to head off his own direction. He tended not to work very well with anyone... unless it was Prowl. Prowl could keep up with him. Not many mechs could says that they could.

As far as the silver mech can see the flat is empty. Not a single thing moves for miles upon miles. Jazz curses the heat internally and transforms to speed further out into the wilds of Cybertron. His current path would eventually take him toward his old home, Polyhex, but it is many, many miles away.

After some time he slows his pace, stops, and begins searching anew with a few doubts starting to rise in his core. They've been searching since the sun broke open the sky and he still has to hear of any findings. Did Springer get fed false intel? Did _anyone_ find _anything_?

Impatience wins out and Jazz pauses to comm the Autobot Second in Command, : Sir Fancy Grappler, come in. : Jazz finds himself smirking as he hears a longsuffering sigh sound over the communication lines. He and Sonic-blaster have come a long way in their friendship. It is safe to say that they didn't start out on good terms, since it was on account of the S.I.C. that Jazz had been caught in the first place. Sneaky little glitch.

: Jazz, : Sonic-blaster finally replies while trying to remain serious, : It's been almost four vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_, could you stop with the nickname?:

Jazz snorts in answer before he asks, : Anybody find anything over your way? :

:Affirmative. Between Ironhide and Ultra Magnus' teams we've recovered nearly fourteen survivors. :

Jazz grins at this. Take that Cons! He doesn't even try to keep his good mood from entering his vocals as he replies with his words almost singing, : Okay. I'll keep looking. Jazzman out! :

The comm goes silent and Jazz continues with his processor going toward the bot that had delivered the news of survivors, Springer, the poor mechling, came in flying high as a seeker with the tidings. Prowl questioned were he got the intelligence out of protocol and Springer's faceplates suddenly had gotten tight with something that looked like anger and as red as Red Alert. He had told them of course with great embarrassment. Jazz had disagreed when Prowl threw the mechling into the brig for breaking base curfew and leaving the city without permission from his superiors. After all, if he hadn't they never would have learned about the surviving Praxians. Prowl, ever the stubborn one, couldn't be swayed.

At least Springer will barely have a joor_ (6.5 earth hrs.)_ of brig time, according to Prowl.

: Jazz, come in, : Prowl calls over the comms.

: Yeah? What is it, Prowler? : Jazz replies, with his good mood not the least bit slowing.

:Why are you not with your team? :

Jazz begins to laugh then abruptly stops when he catches sight of a blip on his energy scanner... and it's right behind him... Jazz hits the ground and rolls out of habit, then regains his pedes a few feet to the left of his original position. His optics find what he is looking for.

The hellish red optics of the mech watching him seem to bore through his chasis and straight into his spark. The jagged insignia of deception on his white and yellow shoulder armor is impossible to miss at the mere distance of ten yards...

How had the fragger gotten so close without him noticing?!

: Jazz, report back to ship immediately, : Prowl's order comes through the comm lines once more with urgency, : Decepticons have been spotted. :

Jazz has to fight the urge to smirk at the irony and the worry that is audible in Prowl's normally stoic vocals. He looks the white Con before him over once more.

: No slag, : Jazz replies to the Head Tactician with a chuckle and then ends the comm link.

The Decepticon's faceplates are hard as he stares at Jazz without movement. Jazz returns the steady gaze and wonders briefly where he's seen this particular Con before. He vaguely remembers those harsh faceplates, but from where? Jazz swiftly accesses his facial recognition programs and when he finds a match it blindsides him... Four vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_ ago. Metropolis. The young officer he had spared when infiltrating the city.

Slag his sentiments!

The Decepticon known as Deadlock smirks as he sees Jazz's frown deepen for an astrosecond_ (1/2 of an earth sec)_ but is caught off guard when the silver saboteur bursts into laughter. A scowl replaces Deadlock's smile as the smaller mech cackles.

"I remember you!" Jazz finally manages to say, while pointing one of his claws at the Decepticon.

"Then you'll know that this is a rematch I've been living for," Deadlock says, placing his servo over dual swords where they rest in their scabbard at his right hip. He crouches into a fighting stance and waits on the Autobot to make his move. He learnt the hard way last time that the first move against Jazz might as well be the last move.

Jazz grins wickedly in return and pokes fun at the young officer, saying, "I'm glad you think of me so often, sweet-spark!" Lazily he saunters closer to his opponent while ignoring the frequent, incoming comm pings from Prowl. Jazz can tell that his words irritated the Decepticon and he braces himself for the attack he knows is coming.

Deadlock swiftly pulls a small blade from his subspace and deftly hurtles it toward the Autobot to distract him! Surprisingly, it does the trick.

Jazz deflects the twirling blade easily and it crashes harmlessly to the ground, but at the same time Deadlock pounces at the saboteur pulling out his swords! Gripping them in both servos, he swings them at the silver mech from both sides. The broad sides of the swords make harsh contact with Jazz's helm right over his audio receptors, causing his audios to ring loudly in protest. The calls coming from Prowl automaticly cease as his comm lines are neutralized.

Slag.

Jazz rolls away from the larger mech so his foe can't deal another strike so harmful again and nimbly gets to his pedes with a grin for Deadlock. A helmache sets in as the ringing in his audios slowly subsides.

"Nice trick," Jazz says with his wide grin splitting his faceplates. The Con's optic ridge quirks upward as he too straightens and circles closer once more. Jazz laxly does the same with his servos swinging as he question mockingly, "Who taught you how to do that?"

This time Deadlock returns the silver mech's smirk with one of his own.

"He was one annoying fragger," the Decepticon answers coyly, hinting at what he plans on doing to the Autobot. The saboteur's visor flashes with understanding of the sly use of past tense to describe him; a laugh erupts from his vocalizer, but is cut short as he dodges Deadlock's blades and dances around him.

"Don't worry," the saboteur says with a chuckle as he goes into a crouch with his claws twitching in eagerness, "I wasn't going to use my comms anyway." Deadlock spots the instant change in the saboteur as he loses his playful edge and a murderous gleam shines through his visor. The Con remembers all too clearly what happened last time he saw that look and determines with a growl that it is _not_ going to happen again.

Deadlock attacks, and the silver Autobot skillfully dodges his advancement. He then swings both his dual swords down toward Jazz's waist, but the mech leaps over them and lands a harsh roundhouse kick on the side of the Con's faceplates, sending Deadlock careening away. Jazz is on him immediately, with his severe claws curled and ready for dismantling! He lunges onto Deadlock's back and buries both his servos under the Con's armor, clearly going for the main energon line that lies there. Deadlock can feel those erergon-hungry claws raking toward his life source. Pure panic floods him and the nitrous oxide rips through his wires with a crackle, and before the saboteur can begin tearing like a gale-force into the sensitive wires, Deadlock throws himself backwards.

Deadlock lands hard and squarely on top of the smaller mech.

He hears all the air leave Jazz's vents in a rush and feels, with great relief, the Autobot's claws retreat from his main energon line.

Jazz tries to roll him off, but Deadlock stubbornly stays planted, keeping the Autobot effectively trapped. This won't keep him long, Deadlock realizes and his processor scrambles with what he should do with his temporarily caught query. As if to prove his point, Jazz's right leg encircles his own and he shifts the Con's weight enough to jerk one servo free. That servo slams onto Deadlock's chassis opened palmed over his spark. Those talon-like digits curl lethally, ready to dig into white metal.

Oh slag! Acting instantly to the threat, Deadlock flips the sword in his servo around and jabs it harshly in the space left between his mainframe and arm, plunging it deep into the saboteur's gears! Jazz, to his credit, keeps his vocalizer in check and manages not to wail. His claws retreat from the Con's spark and digs sharply into Deadlock's upper arm pistons instead, severing the relays and control connections and rendering the arm holding the sword that just impaled him completely useless.

Deadlock snarls at the sudden turning of tables and leaps off the Autobot before he can do the same to his left arm. He leaves his right sword behind and sticking grotesquely out of the Autobot's abdomen, seeing as he couldn't grip it with his useless servo anymore. A growl rumbles through him as he feels his right arm fall completely numb all the way down to the tips of his finger digits.

Not again!

Jazz rolled off the ground at the same time as Deadlock with the sword still in his side. Ignoring the pain and the warnings that suddenly pop up in his HUD, Jazz grips the handle and pulls the blade out smoothly. Energon begins to trickle out of the open wound and down his leg. There isn't even a wince on the Autobot's faceplates to indicate his discomfort and if it weren't for the glowing blue trail of energon that slowly empties onto Cybertron's surface, Deadlock wouldn't even be able to tell that he'd just injured the mech.

The two bots circle each other with hard faceplates.

Deadlock grips his lone sword tighter and becomes acutely aware of just how hard it will be to fight with his right arm dangling by his side uselessly. He stares at his adversary's visor and the blue hue of his hidden optics, waiting on a sign of attack. The Decepticon can tell by the way the Autobot holds _his_ sword that Jazz is no amateur in using this type of weapon... but then again, Deadlock would be surprised if there is _any_ weapon this mech couldn't use.

Deadlock takes a testing step forward and Jazz swiftly moves to counter whatever tactic he might try next, abet with a barely noticeable limp. He is hurting right now from the injury in his side, the Decepticon notes, and with his pathetically unusable arm, Deadlock is glad. The fight is still quite fair.

The Autobot attacks first this time, catching Deadlock slightly off guard, but he expertly dodges and blocks Jazz's advancement. Deadlock ducks the swipe aimed at his helm from the saboteur and thrusts his own blade toward the Autobot's chassis. Jazz dodges a bit too slow and earns a large gash across his arm that also begins to seep energon.

The Autobot bares his denta against the pain and doesn't slow his attacks.

Deadlock attempts to parry his next strike, but the silver mech successfully knocks his weapon out of his servo! In his desperation, Deadlock uses his upper body weight to swing his limp arm around and brutally backhands Jazz across the faceplates!

As Jazz stumbles away, Deadlock uses the small window to kick the silver mech's blade out of his servos as well. As his pede makes contact with the weapon Jazz catches his leg in a solid arm lock with his left arm and plunges his right servo's claws into the Con's knee joints, repeating the same action as he did with Deadlock's arm! Jazz then tosses the now glitched leg away from his frame, causing Deadlock to stumble backwards with his arms flailing for balance.

Scrap!

Deadlock feels panic rising in his spark once more as the bottom of his leg, from the knee down, falls into a numb oblivion! Swiftly he locks his knee piston as he stumbles so his leg doesn't crumple under his weight. Now his movements have become choppy and downright awkward, clearly giving Jazz the upper servo though the saboteur is still losing a fair amount of energon.

Both mechs stop and stare at each other, both catching their vents and taking assessment of the damage they've done, and both judging if it is wise to continue. Neither of them had ever ran from a fight before and based on the way neither of them were backing down it isn't likely that either will start now.

Deadlock sees Jazz's servo go to his side to staunch the energon flow coming from him in a mild sign of discomfort. The Autobot's vents are a little haggard, but he does a good job hiding it. Maybe he could just wait the saboteur out and finish him off when he passes out from loss of energon, Deadlock muses as he watches his opponent. Instantly the though makes him scowl, were had that come from?! He's never just stood by in a stalemate until his enemy keeled over before and he's not going to start now!

He needs his swords...

Deadlock glances discreetly around him trying to locate his weapons.

At the slightest sign of the Decepticon being distracted, Jazz lunges to his right with a roll and comes up with both of the missing blades in his servos!

Frag.

Deadlock dodges Jazz's advancement with little to no grace and stumbles to the ground, landing solidly on his faceplates. Knowing he will not be able to get up in time, he rolls over onto his back just as both swords come down where he used to be! Deadlock uses his good leg to catch Jazz in the gears with his pede and kicks him away, giving the white mech only two nano-kliks _(1 nanoklik=1 earth sec.)_ to get up. He makes it to his pedes... barely, and staggers a few feet away to stay out of Jazz's reach.

Deadlock scowls as he tries to form a new plan of attack. Seeing as his dual swords are currently occupied, he realizes he must bring out his long sword. It's going to be almost impossible to use it with only one functioning arm… Almost.

He pulls the large sword, that is nearly a third as long as his frame, off of its resting place on his back. Deadlock uses his good servo to wrap his limp right servo's digits around the weapon's hilt. Hurriedly, he locks the joints in his digits to grip the handle in a steel hold. Clutching the weapon with his good servo, Deadlock slams the bottom of the hilt onto his upper leg armor, activating it.

The sword begins to transform in a blaze of hot metal, unfolding, and tripling its size to a little over the length of the Decepticon's main frame. It glows a wicked orange shade, heat radiating off of the weapon in waves, indicating that cutting through the saboteur would be like slicing through liquid energon.

"Shiny," Jazz says snidely, with an admiring smile playing on his lip components.

"I'm glad you like it," Deadlock replies in a hiss as he steps forward and swings the long sword at the silver mech who attempts to stop it with both of his stolen blades.

The heated long sword slices through both blades and Jazz barely has time to duck under it; he feels the heat warp some of the paint at the top of his helm as the huge weapon slices the air above, nearly catching his winged aerials as it scorches passed. The saboteur looks at both the dual swords in his servos, now reduced to half their normal size, cut clean through and still smoking. He looks back at Deadlock with his mouthplates hanging slightly before he chucks the stubbed blade in his right servo at the Decepticon. Deadlock scarcely sidesteps in time and the cut off sword flies by his waist, whistling wildly as it spins by. The mechs stare at each other without moving again before Jazz chucks the shortened blade in his left servo as well. Deadlock ducks under this one and can hear the sound of the cut off weapon whipping through the air as it passes.

Jazz uses this distraction to charge the young officer.

He tackles the white and yellow Decepticon to the ground, causing Deadlock to lose his grip on the long sword with his good servo. The Con's right digits stays locked stubbornly around the weapon's hilt and he drags the huge weapon with him in his fall.

The two mechs land on the ground as one with Jazz on top. Blue energon from the saboteur splashes onto Deadlock's white armor as they grapple wildly at one another. Jazz's claws rake across Deadlock's faceplates and his chassis in a furious savagery that startles the Decepticon thoroughly. In an attempt to defend himself, Deadlock punches the Autobot, causing his blue visor to crack. As the saboteur stutters in his attack Deadlock reaches franticly for his long sword with his still functioning arm.

Jazz doesn't let him.

He is kicked back down to his back with his systems jarring from the small mech's brutality. Jazz then forcibly removes the long sword from Deadlock's right servo by breaking off the Decepticon's locked finger digits. Deadlock silences the scream of pain that struggles to be voiced as energon spurts from his jaggedly severed finger digits. The saboteur doesn't even try to wield the long sword and, instead, merely kicks the weapon away from the downed Con.

Jazz rains countless blows to the Con's faceplates. Energon coats Deadlock's faceplates as he tries and fails to land a feeble strike of his own. He twists under the saboteur's weight and a feeling that could only be called desperation wells up in his chassis as he spots one of the discarded, stubbed, dual swords laying close by. That's his chance!

The Decepticon lashes out with a snarl and manages to land a wild, harsh punch on the side of the silver mech's faceplates, causing the Autobot to shift his weight slightly. This gives Deadlock the chance to kick the smaller mech off and roll away, before scrambling madly across the Cybertronian flat. He hears Jazz curse behind him and jump after him only an astro-second _(1/2 an earth sec.)_ behind! He grabs at the stunted weapon and whirls to face his oncoming attacker, who is much closer than he anticipated. He can see the saboteur's surprise even with the cracked visor obscuring his optics as Deadlock stabs at him with no aim and buries the cut off blade deep into the Autobot's chest, just missing his spark chamber by a fraction!

Jazz falls back onto his skidplating as he looks down at the sword's hilt protruding out of his chest. It doesn't even hurt, he realizes as a small squirt of blue tries to force its way passed the blade. That's probably not good. He rolls over to his servos and knees shakily and grunts as the oddly absent pain suddenly makes an appearance. A dull ache flares though his chassis and zones in toward the center of his chest plates. Prowl is going to offline him for this... he will never hear the end of it from Hot Rod... or Sonic-blaster for that matter. He has to at lest get up and finish the fight.

Jazz pushes himself up and stumbles back down as his balance systems overcorrects then goes haywire.

Frag.

He moves to get up again, but something pushes him back down firmly and forces him to roll over to his backstruts. A heavy pede rests on his chassis next to the sword in his chestplates. Jazz blinks at the white pede and then to its owner. His vision spazzes. Slag, that's all he needs. Something hot hovers right over his neck cables, painfully warping his armor, but he can't quite see it. He shakes his helm to clear his sight.

Deadlock is standing over him, long sword in his good servo, getting ready to deal the final blow... He should have stayed in his berth this morning-cycle, Jazz laments as he realizes this is probably the last tussle he's going to have on this side of the Well...Maybe not, who knows? Maybe Primus will have a nice, chaotic place reserved especially for him where he can fight to his spark's desire. Doubtful, but one could hope. More than likely, Jazz thinks with chagrin, he has a special place in Unicron's Pit... The Con's ruby optics glare down at him, but Jazz spots a sudden hesitation.

What for? Why should this Deadlock pause even an astro-second_ (1/2 an earth sec.)_ before making an Autobot's helm roll?

"Lesson learned," Deadlock says huskily as he finally raises his sword to deal the death blow.

Jazz smiles at the Con's words. If it hadn't been for this war they would have most definitely been friends. Well, he couldn't think of a better adversary to lose to...

Without warning Deadlock lowers his weapon and deactivates it with his faceplates slightly confused as if his good servo acted of its own accord. The blade's heat slowly fades away and it folds up neatly into itself. The Con slips onto its place on his back and turns away not even bother to gather his sliced dual swords. They are useless now anyway, he will just have to get new ones. Deadlock glances over his shoulder at Jazz, who is struggling to sit up.

"Now we're even," the Decepticon S.I.C. says before he walks away from his downed opponent. "And tell that fragger Hot Rod, he's got it coming," he throws over his white shoulder armor before transforming jerkily and moving off at a fairly slow pace.

Jazz pulls himself up slowly and tries to shake his processor clear of the tiny fingers of unconsciousness, but only succeeds in making himself dizzy. He nearly falls onto his back again, but forces himself to stand. Low energon warnings flash through his processor along with others. He takes a few steps then staggers to his knees. He's not going anywhere. Not like this. Jazz gingerly lays himself back down before he can fall and cause more damage to himself.

The Autobots will find him, he shan't be worried about that. He lost enough energon to make him a beacon as bright as the sun in the sky on a bot's energy scanner. All he has to do is wait and not offline. That might prove to be a problem as Jazz feels himself losing conciousness fast. He really can't tell if he is offlining or going into stasis lock, but neither is desirable. The small, silvery mech suddenly finds humor in the situation and he chuckles lowly to himself before his breath catches in his throatpipes and he begins coughing painfully. Energon gurgles up from his vent in light of his hacking fit. Slag, that can't be good... Now Ratchet is going to kick his aft for laughing at a time like this, Optimus and Prowl are going to give him a stern talking to, and Grimlock is going to sit on Ultra Magnus for stealing his toys... Wait, what?

Jazz's vision slowly blurs into nothingness and a black oblivion follows close behind it.

* * *

Ironhide pauses to listen to his surroundings again. There it is! A soft cry and sniff. By the sound of it, its a femme.

"Do you hear that?" Chromia asks as she steps up beside him. Ironhide nods and moves forward through the rubble of a small town that was destroyed many vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_ ago. He spots a small, light orange femme curled up under an overhang of wreckage.

The femme's gaze whips up and she sees the two bots. Her optics fill with fear and she flattens herself against the wall behind her, her chest heaving with fright. Ironhide holds his servos up to show they mean no harm and Chromia almost scoffs at the huge mech. The femme had just gone through a brutal genocide, the sight of cannons as large as his will no doubt scare the slag out of the poor thing. She almost reaches out to stop the mech from moving any closer when the orange femme catches her off guard by hurling herself in the large mech's arms sobbing.

How could she be so trusting of two strange bots finding her in this rubble right after she had just witnessed the cons brutally offlining everyone around her?

Another feeling along with suspicion rises in Chromia's spark as she takes in the sight of the orange femme in Ironhide's arms. Her optics narrow at the fembot and she feels a sudden dislike along with mistrust towards her.

"Come, we will take you back to the Autobot ship that is at Praxus," Chromia says and her vocals have a cold edge to them. She finds with astonishment that she feels no sympathy for this femme and it bothers her.

"No! I don't want to go back to Praxus!" the femme shrieks and buries her helm in Ironhide's chest. The mech's faceplates are hard and he doesn't seem comfortable with the femme's close proximity. Chromia fights the pleased feeling that tries to overtake her and schools her faceplates into a no nonsense expression.

"Femme, the sooner you cooperate, the sooner you can get to safety and medical attention," Chromia says to her, sounding like Prowl with his monotonous tone. The fembot's yellow optics seem to glare at Chromia with anger, but as quickly as it came, it disappears. Did she just imagine that? Chromia looks at Ironhide to see if he had seen it too, but he is setting the femme down.

"What is your designation?" he asks the pathetically shaking femme with his vocals gruff.

"Star," the femme says looking up at the mech's faceplates with stupid, starry optics.

"Are you injured?" Ironhide asks next.

The femme nods solemnly and shows the weapons specialist several superficial scratches and scrapes. Chromia's ire rises quickly at the fembot, but she manages to keep a scowl off of her faceplates and she peeks at the black mech to see his reaction. Ironhide is only watching the femme with unamused optics. He stands and walks out from under the overhang and motions with his servo for Star to follow.

"Let's get back to the other two," he says in his usual rough tone as he moves in the direction that the other members of their search party had gone. He searches the area for them quickly and finds the other two mechs close by. He calls them over with only a silent jerk of his helm, then orders when they near, "Take this femme back to the ship."

Chromia feels relief that he did not command _her_ to take the femme. She doesn't know how much longer she could have taken the fembot's idibot antics without punching her half-witted faceplates in. As the two mechs escort Star back toward the ship Chromia moves closer to Ironhide. His blue optics find hers quickly and he waits for what she wanted to say.

"There is something off about that fembot," Chromia mutters lowly as she glances from the black mech to the retreating backs of the other three bots. Ironhide grunts his agreement before he moves to continue their search.

A comm link ping from Prowl stops him short.

: All western teams, report back to _the Hulk_ immediately! Decepticons have been spotted! : Prowl commands with a rare worry seeping into his vocals.

The weapons specialist and the light blue femme exchange a look that clearly states how much they both would love to have a run in with some of those glitched up fraggers, but they are part of the western search teams so they must report back to the Autobot hovering ship that is docked at what remains of Praxus.

Still... it would hurt to see if there are any close by...

Chromia checks her spark energy scanner to see if any Decepticon signals pop up and what she see nearly stops her spark. There are familiar two signatures, one Autobot and one Decepticon, nearly on top of each other on the scanners. Ironhide curses out loud as he realizes the same thing.

"That's Jazz," Ironhide growls as he glances at Chromia and starts off toward the two blips on the scanners.

"I'm guessing I'm not the only one who recognizes the Con signature..." Chromia mutters as she follows the big mech without question.

Ironhide shakes his helm. They're both thinking it.

Deadlock.

"Jazz needs backup," Ironhide states and transforms to speed in the direction of the obviously ongoing scuffle with Chromia trailing close behind him with her denta clenched. Deadlock has dealt in enough Autobots, and Chromia will go to Unicron's Pit before she will let him do it again. The slagger has got it coming!

Jazz's signal grows uncharacteristically strong on her scanner and Chromia feels her spark all but sink to her gears. That can only mean one thing... Jazz has lost a lot of energon.

Frag it, no!

Chromia growls and is about to pass Ironhide when he suddenly takes on a burst speed. He must have seen it too.

Chromia's spark clenches painfully as she and Ironhide race frantically over the Cybertronian flat. Dread settles in her core as she anticipates what will happen next. At any moment Jazz's signal will fade forever and Deadlock will have claimed another Autobot. A rage builds in the fembot as she strains her systems for more speed. They have to reach him in time! He's still online, they can still make it!

Chromia is caught slightly off guard as the Decepticon's signal moves away from Jazz's, who is still online.

That fragger! He's just going to let the mech offline slowly? What else could be expected from a Con?

The silver saboteur's signal moves toward them a little then stops. It flickers and then begins to dim just as Chromia feared!

_Hang on, Jazz! _Chromia wants to scream.

She sees the glimmering blue of spilled energon in the distance, in its midst a still frame. The two bots reach their downed friend in the barest nano-kliks_ (seconds) _and Chromia rushes to the saboteur's side as Ironhide clears the perimeter with his cannon lite up, dangerously humming as he does. Chromia takes in the sight of the downed silver mech with a hammering spark pulse. It is painfully clear at once that if Jazz doesn't get to a medic soon, he will offline. There are dozens of small wounds all over his frame, energon leaks freely from a large gash on his right arm, and a frighteningly large amount of the life sustaining blue liquid hemorrhages to the ground beneath him from a critical stab wound running through his side. Chromia's optics stop at the most obvious threat.

A blade buried in the saboteur's chest.

"Frag," Ironhide growls as he walks up from behind her and takes in the sight as well, "call back to base. Tell them we need a bridge ASAP."

: Blaster, come in! : Chromia barks at the communications officer who is stationed back at Iacon as Ironhide remains standing by her side as a look out for whatever Decepticons Prowl had warned them about earlier.

: Here, : Blaster replies laxly, despite the desperation in Chromia's 'voice'.

: We need a bridge at these coordinates and we need a medic on arrival! : She orders as she checks Jazz's vital output.

: On it, : Blaster replies sounding much more clipped and professional.

A bridge appears instantly several yards away and Chromia can feel a small level of relief in her frame.

"You go ahead," Ironhide says lowly and Chromia eyes him suspiciously in her position next to Jazz.

"What are you going to do?" she asks, although already knowing the answer. She is thinking of doing it herself. Deadlock's signal is still on her energy scanner, strong but moving slow, meaning Jazz did a number on him. Chromia fights the insane urge to act upon her sudden impulse to go hunt the fragger down and rip his spark out through his mouthplates.

Ironhide narrows his optics at her and says exactly what she is thinking, "I'm going to go finish the job," he growls dangerously.

"No," Chromia says, stopping him short with a servo on his arm, "Jazz will, on another cycle_ (day)_, but right now I need you to carry him." With that she stands back to make room for the big, black mech to step in and pick the injured saboteur off the ground. Ironhide does so after staring at the femme for a few short nano-kliks_ (seconds)_. Swiftly he carries the much smaller Autobot through the ground bridge with easy, measuring strides, careful not to jostle him.

Chromia follows closely behind with her spark pulsating wildly as her faceplates flush from Ironhide's gaze. Why is that mech's gaze so unsettling? She shakes off the unwanted feelings as they emerge in the communications hanger in Iacon.

As soon as they emerge Ratchet is upon them with a vengeance, "What's his output?!" Chromia opens her mouthplates to tell him, but the medic has already checked for himself before she can utter a word. "Fraggit all! Where's all this energon coming from!" Ratchet exclaims as his medical staff come running into the hanger with a stretcher.

"Put him on the stretcher!" Ratchet orders Ironhide, who does as he is told without words for the second time in a few nano-kliks_ (seconds)_. "Code, check his energy levels! Flat Line, get ready for a emergency transfusion! Where's all this slagging energon coming from! Put a clamp on that line!" Ratchet barks from beside Jazz as one of his new apprentices, Chromia doesn't remember ever seeing him before, pushes the stretcher at an all-out run toward the Med Bay.

"Is he going to make it?" Chromia calls to the C.M.O., who promptly disappears down the halls without answering her question.

It must be pretty bad then.

The blue fembot clenches her servos in her frustration and squeezes her optics shut to reign in her anger. She runs through the whole thing in her helm. Finding that femme, Star, ugh. Prowl's warning. Seeing the energy signals. Finding Jazz. Ironhide's anger. Her own rage. Chromia finds herself wondering suddenly what had made Ironhide listen to her out there when she told him not to give chase after Deadlock.

The blue femme chances a glance at said mech to find him looking at her. The same unsettling feeling rises swiftly and courses through her frame as she gets lost in his unreadable gaze. Was he angry? She hopes not. A long, awkward silence stretches between them as they stand in the middle of the communications hanger. They both are no doubt thinking the same thing; if Jazz offlines it's their fault that they didn't reach him in time... and there is one Con that will be so slagged!

"Would the bots who are A.) Not of use and B.) Making googie optics at each other, please remove themselves from the room," Blaster yells irritably from his spot at a large computer. The communication bots burst into genuine, yet strained laughter at this. Most of them are quit on edge at seeing Jazz in his condition and barely crack a smile at the jest.

Ironhide blinks stupidly for several nano-kliks _(seconds)_ before his cooling fans kick in as his frame heats up. Chromia glares at Blaster, her own fans running in embarrassment as well, she hopes everyone thinks it is with rage. Ironhide hastily exits the room with Chromia close behind and her frame heats even more as several wolf whistles follow them out.

They find themselves standing awkwardly in the hall with their worries about the silver saboteur becoming unbearable. The silence that stretches between them only adds to their tension and Chromia's optic light up in relief when she spots Hot Rod walking merrily down the hall with Bumblebee in his servo.

The little yellow mechlet squeals in delight at the sight of his Ironhide and reaches out for him with a giggle. Hot Rod hands the little bit off willingly and without a word with a smile on his faceplate. Just as Chromia begins to wonder exactly what all they tore up around the base the two splitspark, femlet twins round the corner in a dead run with a peeved Wheeljack close behind them.

Wheeljack is squalling something that sounds like, "Bring that back!"

Chromia sees Ironhide pull the little yellow sparkling securely to his chassis as the trio flies by and an unnamed feeling grows in the femme's spark as she sees the war hardened mech's fierce protectiveness toward Bumblebee. She has never taken time to get to know the mechling, but the black weapons specialist's reaction makes the fembot determined to find out what makes Bumblebee so special.

"Please don't tell me you had something to do with that," Ironhide grunts as he gestures toward the retreating backs of the three bots. Hot Rod grins rather cheekily at his former teacher.

"Ok, I will not tell you," he says in a smart-aftish manner that makes the larger and older mech narrow his optics. "So how's the search going?" Hot Rod asks suddenly changing the subject skillfully, but the rather innocent question brings a solemn look on both bots' faceplates. The younger mech's cocky smile falters and his expression darkens slightly, "What happened?" he asks, his vocals sounding strangely like a mix between his brothers'.

"Jazz had a run in with Deadlock. He's in stasis, but still online," Ironhide says as he shifts Bumblebee to his other servo.

"That's what I don't get," Chromia says suddenly, "Deadlock clearly came out on top, but Jazz is still online." She looks between the two mechs. Ironhide is looking at her, contemplating the thought she shared, but Hot Rod just looks hostile.

"Is he going to be alright?" Hot Rod asks his words shaking slightly in his sudden rage.

"Ratchet…didn't say," Chromia says as she meets Ironhide's gaze, both of them again hoping the medic's silence didn't mean what they thought.

Hot Rod's lip plating presses in a tight line. His servos clench into painful-looking fists and he walks away without another word.

* * *

_So much just happened and I have to address some of it. First off, poor Chromia, she hasn't a clue. And Secondly, I wasn't sure when Deadlock was supposed to get his huge sword thingy, but I just stuck it in there now. He'll get a different one later, so._

_Now, for the final word, a big CONGRATULATIONS to **2211Nighthawk** and **enmused** for being able to list over seven of my OCs. You two are awesome-sauce! I hope you enjoyed the finished product. :)_


	12. Chapter 11

_Fist pump into the air! Oh yeah, got this one done before midnight. Sweet victory is mine. Anyway, how many saw the new TF movie? Oh lands on fire, that was intense! I have already ranted all my feelings about it to **2211Nighthawk**, so you all will be spared. And to my cyber friend whom I've raved to and has withstood all my raging: I have now updated, and I was wrong. Arachnid doesn't show up here, she shows up in the next chapter. Blast my terrible memory. I hope you like it anyway. :)_

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

Elita1 hums to herself in disapproval as she watches her small class of femmlings practicing their combat moves in synchronized fashion. Steelstar, Firecracker, and Torpedo are executing the moves correctly, but are lunging into every move as if their sparks depends on it. Electra and Sparkler are being much more timid with the motions and are falling behind in the exercise. She will have to bring this to their attention.

The pink fembot's tanks grumble suddenly and her processor goes briefly to energon. She should go refuel again soon. According to Ratchet her sparkling is taking a lot of her energy for itself for development. Speaking of which, blast that medic! He had the gall and the gumption to go and tell Optimus that she was not physically able to aid in the search for survivors. Optimus being Optimus had gotten worried and had reprimanded her gently about lying to him that she was fine.

If he only knew! She _is_ fine, just impregnated... She probably should have told him then while they were so close to the subject.

Elita shakes her helm to herself, she is definitely not ready. Better to just let him believe she is physically unstable.

As soon as the search party had left Ratchet had called her to the med bay and lectured her very thoroughly about what she could and could not do while carrying her sparkling. That was one conversation Elita hopes she never has to go through again. If she hears one more scenario of what could go wrong if she exerts herself too much she is going to strangle someone... Probably Ratchet. After his speech, he asked her how Optimus was taking the news and she had to tell him that she had not told her bondmate as of yet. He was exasperated and had launched into another rant about how keeping something this monumental a secret could be stressing her systems, and could be harming the sparkling's growth. Somehow he ended up back at the first lecture.

Elita had left the med bay in a foul mood and headed straight to the class she was supposed to teach today since Ironhide was helping with the search and rescue for the Praxian survivors. She didn't teach very often, so she told herself to enjoy it. It is kind of hard to though, because as soon as Optimus finds out about her sparkling he will promptly take her off of field work and she will no doubt be seeing more of these students.

On the brighter side of things, Optimus had put her in charge of creating a small, elite task force of femmes that she and Chromia will come to lead, if all goes according to plan. If Elita didn't know any better she would think that her sparkmate is trying to discreetly apologize for vexing her so badly when he was haranguing her about her health.

Elita brings her processor back to the task at servo and circles the younglings with her sharp optics taking in their every move. As the group finishes the exercise they stand erect before their scrutinizing teacher. This is the first time they've had Commander Elita1 as their instructor and they shift nervously under her watch.

"You're relying too much on strength," Elita says finally as she comes to a stop in front of them, "you are all small femmelings and when you are upgraded to your adult frames you will still be small fembots. There is no way in the Pit you will last even a klik_ (1.2 earth min.)_ on the battlefield if you continuously throw all the strength you have into one move. To be brutally honest, most of you don't have any, and most of the Cons you will face some cycle_ (day)_ will be large mechs. You must learn to use stealth and agility. Be quick, learn to turn your opponent's force against them. Exploit their weaknesses." The femmelets are all listening eagerly to the pink fembot and she pauses when she realizes she is starting to sound like a scary mix between Ironhide and Prowl. Her lip components purse at the thought and she nods to the femmelings, "You are dismissed. We will resume another cycle."

The younglings nod their helms excitedly at this and grin at their instructor. They start chattering among themselves about how to incorporate more speed into each move even as Elita is turning away. A smile threatens to show on the femme Commander's lip plates as she begins moving away from her class.

The entrance to the training hanger opens unexpectedly and Elita hears stomping pede falls enter. Even before she turns around to see the culprit of the noise she can feel the anger radiating off of the new arrival. Taking in the sight of Hot Rod's clenched servos and rigid back struts Elita immediately turns back to the class, "Femmelings, why don't you head toward the recreation room. I'm sure you'll find the environment there much more suited for discussing how to improve your strategies."

The femmelings' optics dart toward Hot Rod then back to Elita. They all know that something bad happened on the last mission that the young mech went on, but it is only speculation as to exactly what it was. There were rumors that ranged from him going berserk and trying to off his own team to getting his processor probed by a deactivated Decepticon's pede and going insane from the horrors that were housed in it. Elita gives the femmelets a warning look before they can start asking questions that has them nodding respectfully with a murmured 'yes Commander', and then exiting the hanger swiftly.

As the last of the younglings disappear Elita turns and watches the mech disappear into the holographic training arena that is combined to the training hanger one. An uneasy pit forms in her gears as she realizes he looks almost demented to the same state of processor he was in several cycles before when he had nearly offlined Quick-plot. Her pedes move of their own violation and she finds herself peering into the holographic training field.

Hot Rod storms from the control room and stations himself in the middle of the field with his armor flaring and settling rapidly on his frame as his fans struggle to cool him. The holographic technology crackles like a whip and electricity buzzes through the field as it activates to the huffing mech's settings.

As Elita hears the holographic training field surge to life she makes her way to the door and enters the control room that Hot Rod had just exited. Her optics find the blinking settings that he had turned the holographs to and her chassis tightens. She has watched mechs fight this sequence before. Mostly they do it just for the slag-filled fun of it, and for the pleasure of tearing into familiar and hated Decepticons.

The landscape blinks into existence with static, announcing the beginning of the training exercise. A gate takes shape and the dreary, sinister enterance that was once her own beautiful city, Metropolis, comes to life before her optics. It isn't Metropolis anymore, Elita reminds herself. It is Darkmount, Galvatron's headquarters. Elita casts her optics to the combat setting of this sequence and finds, with little surprise, that the mech has turned it to advanced.

It starts then and Elita can only watch with wide optics as eight 'mechs' come running through the gates and Hot Rod swiftly and brutally offlines them all in mere nano-kliks_ (1 nano-klik=1 earth sec.)_. The second wave pours through. Con after Con falls to the enraged mech and Elita can feel her dread rising with every hologram he lays waste to. She can hear his vents coming in great heaving gasps from inside the control room and her spark wrenches. His optics are nothing but brilliant white as he guts one then beheads another. Mindlessly he goes on until steam is hissing from his frame and every step he takes trembles from exertion.

This has to stop.

Elita reaches swiftly for the off switch to deactivate the sequence and put an end to this madness, but then halts. Her servo trembles in place as she sees a lone hologram emerge from beyond the gates, his identity impossible to miss as his white armor flashes into existence.

Deadlock.

Hot Rod hacks into 'Deadlock' and somewhere 'Megatron' snarls savagely. Elita's optics search for the hologram of the warlord but finds nothing. He isn't in this sequence, Elita realizes. The feral roar echoes across the holographic training field again and Elita shivers at the sound. It didn't come from 'Megatron'; that horrible mech's hologram is nowhere to be seen... It came from Hot Rod.

The pink femme's optics suddenly fill with unbidden tears as she watches the tri-colored mech wrap his arm around the 'Deadlock's' neck cables from behind and use his free servo to tear off the hologram's faceplates in a mess of blinking and fritzing wires. Elita squeezes her optics shut and turns her faceplates from the sight with her throat pipes clogged. How had the sweet, little youngling that Optimus had told her so much about, turn into this monster before her now?

He must be angry about Jazz. Elita bites on her lower lip plates and comms Ratchet without a second thought to check on how things were going with the silver saboteur. She had heard from Chromia that Jazz had been hurt, but she didn't suspect it was too bad. Until she saw Hot Rod came thundering in with his temper ignited to levels she'd only seen when he was half crazy with rage at Quick-plot. Her spark clenches with worry for Jazz. True, he is rather annoying and is always cracking inappropriate jokes, but she can't imagine life around base without him.

: Yes, Elita? : Ratchet sounds weary as he answers her hail.

: Ratchet, how is he? : she asks quickly over their private link without bothering with any form of greeting.

: Stable, for now, : the medic's 'voice' answers after a while, : How are you? You're not stressing yourself are you? :

: No. I'm fine. Thank you, Ratchet, : Elita ends the comm then and vents in relief that she managed to avoid another 'speech'. She turns her attention back to the young, hurting mech in the training arena with worry welling inside of her.

Darkmount is slowly dissolving along with all of the offlined 'Decepticons' laying at the gate. Hot Rod has yet to move from where he completely shredded the hologram of Deadlock into parts. All is quiet, save for the heaving of the mech's vents and the billowing of his fans. He takes a shaky step backwards and his optic ridge is furrowed in confusion as his gradually bluing optics watch 'Deadlock' fade into nothing. He suddenly looks so young and lost to Elita that she can't help but open the control room's door and step out into the arena.

She calls to him softly, "Hot Rod?"

Hot Rod's back struts go rigid as his helm snaps up at her voice but he doesn't turn to look at her.

"What?" his vocals are thick with some indecipherable emotion.

Elita nears him cautiously, "Are you ok?"

A short laugh comes from the mech and he rolls his shoulders while turning to face her with an arrogant grin forming on his faceplates, "I'm fine, Lita." His smirk grows and his vents slow from their furious panting, "Why aren't you with the search parties?"

"Ratchet says I'm not physically able," she grumbles, allowing him to lead her off the subject she had just tried to breach.

"Well, they seem to think I'm a loose cannon, so," he says with a nonchalant shrug and a chuckle. Elita frowns as she sees in the mech's optics that he knows they are right and he doesn't give a slag. She decides to test and see if her theory of what is bothering him is correct.

"I just talked Ratchet over the comms," she says watching his reaction. Hot Rod stiffens slightly, but doesn't look at Elita. His faceplates darken slightly and he checks the weapons that he had been using on the field as if he couldn't care less. "Ratchet has him stablized," she offers up the information about Jazz even though he didn't ask and she hears his small vent of relief as he looks up her with a genuine smile.

"That's good," he says, with his carefree attitude sealed firmly back into place.

A long silence stretches between them and Elita scrambles for something to say, "You know, its been a joor _(6.5 earth hrs.)_ since we got the tip on the survivors."

"Uh-huh," Hot Rod mumbles as he slides his weapons back into subspace.

"I think its time someone goes and busts Springer out of his cell," Elita says conversationally and almost grins in triumph when Hot Rod's faceplates light up like a thrilled sparkling. She pauses only for a moment before asking, "Do you want to come help me?"

"Sure," Hot Rod says with a cackle, "It's the mech's first offence; I'm definitely coming to gawk." Elita raises an optic ridge at the mech before he defends his actions with a fast grin, "Hey, I'm just returning a favor!"

"Of course you are," Elita scoffs as they walk out of the arena with Hot Rod starting a lewd conversation about her bonded life. She has to roll her optics in annoyance at the mech and decides to ignore his many rude comments.

"So... what did good ol' Springer do to warrant this unexpected stay in the brig?" Hot Rod asks changing the subject unexpectedly.

"He snuck out of the base and went to Tyger Pax last lunar cycle_ (night)_," she answers and slyly watches for his reaction.

The mech's optics widen and he stops in his tracks as he stares at her in complete surprise. His optic ridge raises in apparent shock and his mouthplates hang open with no words emerging. Elita must admit, if she didn't know any better she would have totally bought his innocent act of astonishment.

"Springer?" Hot Rod asks with his vocals full of disbelief and this makes Elita begin to doubt herself. Maybe Hot Rod didn't know anything about last lunar cycle_ (night)_ after all. She nods her helm at his questioning gaze and he suddenly laughs aloud and says, still looking amazed, "Wow, that's big!"

Pit, he's good.

"How did he get out of the base?" Hot Rod asks with his optics showing nothing but curiosity.

"We don't know," the pink femme answers truthfully still watching him.

"Prowl sure took it easy on him," Hot Rod says with a slag-eating grin.

"Well, there were several bots against putting him in the brig in the first place," Elita replies as they near the brig, "Since it _was_ him that found out about the survivors and he is the reason all those sparks were saved this cycle... but, you know Prowl. He didn't want anyone to get the idea that breaking the rules is good no matter what great things come out of it."

"Yeah, I figured that one out," the tri-colored mech says as they enter the brig and pass the guard on duty, who looks about ready to kiss Elita's pedes when she enters. Elita does have that effect on mechs. The fembot doesn't miss the scowl that Hot Rod shoots the guard and almost laughs at how the young mech feels the need to make sure other mechs, besides Optimus, keep their distance from her.

Deep down inside he is still the same, Elita decides with her smile returning. Perhaps Ultra Magnus and Optimus were right... maybe she was just imagining things are wrong with Hot Rod, when, in reality, he is the same as he's always been. Her own question that she asked Optimus comes back to nag at the back of her processor._ What if normal has always been a façade?_

The duo comes to a stop at the first cell in the brig and Elita motions for the guard to release the scowling green and white mech that is hunched on the cell's berth. The guard immediately obeys with his optics wide and staring as if Elita is some sort of goddess. Elita ignores his open staring and holds the unlocked brig door open with a smile on her faceplates, "Springer, time's up."

Springer jumps off the berth lightly and walks toward the open cell door.

"Hey, buddy! How's it going?" Hot Rod asks with his vocals strangely gloating. Springer glowers at him harshly as he exits the cell. He pauses briefly to give the pink femme Commander a sweet smile before he returns to glaring at his friend.

"You," Springer hisses as he points at the beaming tri-colored mech.

"You're looking a bit disgruntled," Hot Rod says with no air of caution as he smiles broadly back at Springer as if not sensing at all the impending danger he is in.

"Training hanger. Now," Springer growls and grabs his friend by the collar armor to drag along like a rag doll if he didn't cooperate.

Elita stifles a giggle at the two younglings' antics as Springer pulls Hot Rod behind him and out of the brig while saying something that sounded oddly like 'I'm going to kick your denta in'. As she follows the pair out into the hall and watches them walk toward the training hanger, well, Springer was stomping and Hot Rod was staggering behind, still being half drug by the smaller mech.

Just as they are about to round the corner she hears Hot Rod say cheekily, "Prison did not treat you well, did it?"

* * *

"You set me up!" Springer snaps as soon as they are in the training hanger. Hot Rod rolls his optics as the green and white mech storms to a corner of the sparring mat with his faceplates twisting into a scowl, and takes his own position on the other side of the mat.

"In my defense-"

"You're such an aft, you know that?" Springer growls as he stretches his leg struts quickly.

"I am an aft," Hot Rod repeats with a nod of his helm, but Springer doesn't even acknowledge his words. The tri-colored mech doesn't bother warming up since his systems are still pretty lose from his holographic training and instead smiles innocently at Springer, "But, you knew that-"

Springer points a finger digit at him, "I can't believe you did that! No, you know what? I can believe it. Do you know why?"

"I am an aft," Hot Rod supplies lowly as Springer stretches his arm struts vehemently.

"Because you're an aft!"

The larger mech nods, "Point taken."

Springer turns to him and shifts into a low fighting stance, "I outa backfire right in your faceplates, you know that?"

"Don't start that game," Hot Rod warns with a grin growing wider by the nano-klik _(second)_, "You know I always win."

"I'm going to lubricate on you when you're in alt mode the next time you pretend you always win," Springer growls as he moves closer and takes a swing at Hot Rod's helm.

Hot Rod ducks the blow and socks the green and white mech in the side, "It's not pretending if it's true."

Springer coughs and swings again, "You're an aft."

"And you love me anyway."

"Actually I hate you," Springer corrects as he strikes at his friend's grinning faceplates.

Hot Rod purposely moves slower and allows the wild hit to catch him on the jaw. The punch flattens him onto his backstruts and Springer is on top of him in an instant and slugging his faceplates. He deflects one blow and knocks the smaller mech slightly off balance then throws him to the side. Hot Rod rolls with him and straddles his friend's back with a winning leer as he pins Springer effectively face down, "Do you feel better now that you've punched me once?"

"I could punch you a million times and not be happy right now," Springer snaps as he struggles to free himself.

"Okay," Hot Rod huffs, "I'm sorry I set you up."

The pinned mech stops struggling for a moment, "Do you mean that?"

"No, but does it make you feel better?"

"A little bit," Springer growls as his flailing resumes.

A smirk comes to Hot Rod's faceplates and he purposely weakens his pin-down for an astro-second_ (1/2 an earth second)_. Springer doesn't disappoint, and catches the barely noticeable hole in his friend's defenses immediately. Hot Rod is flipped to his back in an instant and the smaller of the two locks him down harshly.

"You found that one faster than usual," Hot Rod observes as he tests the arm lock the triple changing mech wrestled him into.

"I fight better when I'm mad."

Hot Rod grins then grunts out through the weight being applied to his chassis, "Is that why you always did better with me as your sparring partner?"

"You do tend to anger me faster than the average mech."

"What about femmes?" Hot Rod asks as he tries to grapple Springer's leg with his own. He fails and Springer pushes him down harder, slamming his helm forcefully into the sparring mat.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A laugh grates from Hot Rod's gears and he tries to roll his friend off, "Come on. I know that your combat scores slipped when Arcee became your partner. Now is she distracting you or is she just plain whipping up on your aft?" Springer's hold falters and Hot Rod snatches up the opportunity by snagging the white and green mech's legs with his and rolling to the top of the two mech pileup. Springer curses under his vent as Hot Rod secures both his arms with ease. "What?" the tri-colored mech asks with a chuckle, "Do you like her?"

"No!" Springer snaps far too quickly to be true.

"Yeah, right," Hot Rod snorts, "I could've heard your fans blowing from a mile away when I had you pinned up against her the other lunar cycle_ (night)_ before we went to Tyger Pax."

"Shut up," Springer hisses as he tries to dislodge the larger mech from his solid position.

"I can't say that I don't approve of your choice in femmes, I mean, she does have one tight, little-"

Springer busts lose from his grip and elbows him in the faceplates. Hot Rod drops to the side and catches himself with one arm, before collapsing completely onto his backstruts with his helm dizzy from the hit. The green and white mech scrambles after him and shoves him down a lot harder than usual before capturing him in a helm lock with his arm snug around Hot Rod's throat pipes; an hold that could knock a mech unconscious if applied forcefully enough.

Hot Rod grabs at his friend's arm with a low growl and tries to pry it lose first, but fails miserably. Springer is pretty sturdy, not much can make him budge. A distraction is in order, "I was telling the truth though," he begins conversationally, "You are doing better."

"So you did notice? Thank you, master Hot Rod," Springer says sarcastically, "Your approval I crave with every wire in my frame. Though I will never be as skillful as you, oh wisest kicker of all afts."

"Rude."

"I speak only truth, master Hot Rod, noble destroyer of all olfactory sensors."

Hot Rod snorts humorously and stops actively looking for a way out, waiting instead for Springer's defenses to ease, "You should be graduating from combat already, you know."

The green and white mech grunts, "That's not up to me."

Springer's hold never lessens and Hot Rod scowls as he realizes that his friend is going to win this round if he doesn't do something quickly. An idea strikes him suddenly and he acts upon it without thought. When one has had enough during sparring they must 'tap out' by hitting the ground four times in rapid succession. Hot Rod reaches out and hits the ground flat palmed twice. As his servo is going down for the third tap Springer's hold is already loosening and Hot Rod breaks free without any hindrance. He slams his elbow into Springer's faceplates in retaliation then swiftly spins from his position on the ground to bring his left leg forcefully down on the stunned mech's midsection.

Hot Rod gets up immediately and continues talking above Springer's loud gasping for air, "Seriously, you broke out of one of my best holds just a bit ago. Not many can do that."

"It's...up ta Iron'ide... frag...'ou..." the smaller mech pants from the ground.

"I could talk to him if you want-"

"No,... don't 'ou... dare..."

Hot Rod grins and then chuckles as he squats next to Springer, "Right. You probably don't even want to graduate do you?" Springer shoots him a questioning look as he heaves for the breath that was nocked so harshly from his vents. "Sparring with a femme probably gets pretty intense. You've probably put your servos in places I'd get kicked in the ball-bearings for," Hot Rod wiggles his optic ridge suggestively and the triple changer scowls.

"It's... not what you think," Springer mutters as his vents slowly return toward a more normal pace. Hot Rod's optic ridge then raises in question and the smaller mech sighs before going on, "Arcee and me. It's not like that... She's got talent. I'm not letting her win just so that I can spar with her."

"I believe you, mech," Hot Rod says easily and offers a servo to help Springer to his pedes, "but nothing you say will convince me that you don't like her."

"I do like her," Springer admits as he takes the servo and stands up next to his taller friend.

"What's holding you back?"

The green and white mech shrugs as he rubs the spot on his faceplates that had been elbowed, "She likes..." his optics settle on Hot Rod for a moment before traveling swiftly to something in the corner of the training hanger. "She likes someone else," he mutters finally.

A frown cuts into Hot Rod's faceplates for a moment before he hums, "Meh, femmes. Who needs them anyway, right?"

Springer just remains silent and presses his lip components into a straight line. The silence lengthens and Hot Rod is about to crack a joke to ease his friend's melancholy mood when Springer growls, "I can't believe you cheated."

"I did not cheat, I won. Like I always do," the tri-colored mech replies with a self-satisfied smirk.

"You were tapping out!"

Hot Rod raises a forefinger digit and pokes his smaller counterpart in the chest plating, "I wasn't tapping out, you assumed I was tapping out, but I wasn't. Hence, I won."

"I can't believe you did that. You know what, I actually can believe that you did that, you know why?"

A grin covers Hot Rod's faceplates, "I am an aft."

"Because you're an aft!"

* * *

_Ahh, I really like writing about those two. They're fun. _

_Leave me reviews if you like the story or if you see any mistakes that I do not address in my author's notes. _

_And thanks to everyone who stopped so far to leave a review. It really helps give me the inspiration to keep updating. :D _


	13. Chapter 12

_Wow, this one took a lot longer than I anticipated. Anyway, I didn't get around to replying to the wonderful reviews I received for the last chapter because I've been so horribly busy lately (V-ball), so I extend my thanks now. **2211Nighthawk, enmused**, and **Bee4ever.** You are all awesome and you keep this show on the road._

_To **2211Nighthawk,** here is that chapter with Arachnid that I was talking about... lol (I still can't believe that I actually forgot what order my story came in... I am quite ditzy at times) And also, I finally snuck in that part with Twinkle that you suggested. _

_I hope you all like it._

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

"Deadlock, Galvatron wants to see you," Arachnid says rather laxly as she enters Darkmount's Med Bay where Scalpel is currently working on the slagged Decepticon's many injuries, courtesy of that slick, Autobot saboteur. Great. Deadlock nearly tells Arachnid to frag off, but manages to hold his glossa in check as she smirks at his wounds.

"An Autobot do that?" mocks the femme with a leer as she gestures to his wounds. His silence must have served as an answer for her, because then she says, "You're getting careless, Deadlock."

Slag her. She didn't know the one who dealt him all these new and painful injuries, if she did she would be impressed that he even managed to walk away from the battle. Deadlock finds himself wondering suddenly why he didn't offline the saboteur when he had the chance. If Galvatron finds out, he is offlined were he stands. The warmonger will be certain that his Second in Command is collaborating with the enemy, as he had so vehemently accused him of doing in Metropolis nearly four vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_ ago.

Deadlock sits up, ignoring Scalpel's squalls of outrage, and scowls at Arachnid as he stands and passes by her to exit the Med Bay. He strongly dislikes and mistrusts the spider-like fembot who is the leader of the Insecticons, brutish mechs that are loyal only to her. There is something about her that makes him recharge lightly and step even lighter. She is uncannily sly and her creepy extra legs that she brings out in times of battle is enough to make more than one mech cringe. It is a wonder Galvatron even trusts her enough to allow her into his ranks. Deadlock knew from the first time he laid optics on the femme that she was fiercely jealous of his position as Second in Command, and would do anything to obtain it. This is why her cunning grin causes an uneasy feeling to rise through his mainframe as he walks by her and out of the Med Bay with Scalpel screeching something about 'you deserve whatever befalls you for leaving without full repairs.'

As the dull white Decepticon enters Darkmount's Security Hanger and takes in the look on Galvatron's faceplates the feeling of impending doom only triples. Deadlock scans the room and finds, with little surprise, that only Blitzer and Galvatron's Head of Security, Sentry, is present. Galvatron locks gaze with him, his red optics boring into Deadlock's own, and neither mech looks away.

"Deadlock," Galvatron begins, his vocals dangerously low, "are you loyal to me?"

Oh Primus, Deadlock fights back an unbelieving groan and begins to wonder just how many times he is going to have to hear that question before Galvatron does away with him even without evidence to back his suspicions of treachery. He has lost count how often he's been subject to the same inquiry since he first heard it after the whole Metropolis, Hot Rod, Sentinel Prime show went down. By the gleam in Galvatron's optics he's found something that he deems worthy of offing him this time... he probably knows about him sparing the silver Autobot. Deadlock finds that he isn't the least bit afraid of the possibility.

"Answer," the huge mech demands.

Oh well, he's slagged anyway...

"Mostly," his reply is said with a stupid aft grin on his faceplates and Deadlock mentally bids his position as S.I.C. goodbye as Galvatron's expression darkens considerably and his optics narrow with malic. From the corner of his optics, Deadlock sees Blitzer give him a harsh look as she shakes her helm slightly in a clear warning to quit while he's still alive. The white con only looks back at his master with unafraid optics and this only serves to anger the larger mech farther.

Galvatron snarls at his fearless gaze and roars ferociously, "Do not mock me!"

Blitzer's shoulders straighten as the tension in the room skyrockets. Her optical ridge furrows in a silent plead for him to fall back into line and smooth down her father unit's rumpled feathers before he deactivates someone out of rage. He can do that. He can swallow his pride for Blitzer and Tempestfire. Deadlock smiles at the large dark mech before answering as respectfully as he can.

"Yes, Lord Galvatron. My apologies, that was not my intentions," he amends while dipping his helm in submission.

"Now," the warlord says, much more calmly than before, "answer my question."

"Yes, Lord Galvatron, I am loyal to you,"

"Why then, did you allow the Autobot Jazz to live?" Galvatron growls with his clawed servos clenching spastically by his side as if he is restraining himself from ripping into the white mech standing before him. Blitzer's optics widen and her helm snaps toward Deadlock with shock. He returns her gaze with his lip components pressed into a tight line.

He's not getting out of this one.

"It was a personal fight, Lord Galvatron," he replies finally to his master, "It was set to my own terms, not Decepticons'." His answer appears to slightly appease Galvatron.

The bigger mech steps forward with his faceplates harsh but thoughtful, "I understand how some fights are personal..." He slowly walks around Deadlock, who stands at rigid attention and does not turn to watch his superior's movements, "but that still does not give any plausible reason as to why you didn't snuff his spark."

"In a private feud if one cannot be loyal to themselves and their own standards, how can they be loyal to anyone?" Deadlock asks, raising his optics to his master's as Galvatron stops in front of him. The warlord pauses to think on the mech's question with his faceplates less severe, but Deadlock does as well.

Why did he join the Decepticon's in the first place? They began this 'Great War' to fight the tyrannical caste system, to rid the planet of it forever. Deadlock joined the right side, the side whose cause was justified and never doubted himself once, but now... They are still fighting, still defying what the blue-sights wanted, but to what end? For a dictatorship? Yes, the caste system would disappear and bots would be free to do what they want with their life… as long as Galvatron and Megatron say it's ok. How long would the two massive leaders get along before they go to war with each other? He is, Deadlock realizes with clarity, fighting to abolish oppression only to replace it with another form of it.

When had the Decepticon cause slipped so far?

Galvatron is smiling, completely unaware that his Second in Command is coming to the knowledge that his ideals no longer line up with the Decepticon's and hasn't for quite some time. He is nodding his helm, accepting Deadlock's answer, deciding to let him live for another cycle. Blitzer is smiling at Deadlock, her relief painfully evident on her faceplates that he had dodged the bullet.

Deadlock doesn't return the femme's smile... his decision is made. He straightens his back struts and raises his chin slightly, "And that is why I am resigning from the Decepticon ranks."

Silence. The quiet screams in his audios as Galvatron stops dead in his tracks and turns to look at his Second again with his optics terrifyingly calm.

"What?" Galvatron asks, his vocals holding an eerie serenity as he stares at Deadlock.

A chill runs up Deadlock's back struts and he fights to keep his faceplates void of the sudden dread that fills him. This probably wasn't the best idea to pop into his byte-sized processor, but it's too late now!

"Gone soft, have you?" Galvatron chuckles softly as if someone just told him a joke, his denta bare in a half smile and his throaty laughter dwindles into diminished echoes. His smile stays in place as his burning red optics spear into Deadlock's, "that's really too bad."

Deadlock's optics flit over to Blitzer for only a split nano-klik with his spark sinking with every pulse. Her optics are squeezed shut against threatening tears as she fists both her servos at her sides in helpless defeat. He finds himself wishing he could scoop her into a hug and never let go. He wishes that he could shield her and Tempestfire from every horrendous thing on the planet, which is a considerable amount.

"Blitzer," Galvatron's gravelly vocalizer cuts through Deadlock's processings and the purple and black femme looks to her Creator, faceplates hard and strong as ever. The smile never leaves Galvatron's lip plates, just as his optics never wonder from their current target, "offline him," the large warlord commands blithely.

The slender femme's optics widen and a look of panic flashes through her ruby optics before she composes herself quickly.

"My lord," she speaks as humbly as possible, seeing how much of an offlining mood her father is in, "perhaps the pits instead? We could make many credits from his skill." She smirks and Deadlock can tell that it is forced by the barely noticeable tremble of her chin, "Who knows, he may even beat Megatron's champions."

Galvatron looks back at Blitzer, his lip plates growing into a large serrated grin. He strokes his chin with long sharp finger digits before he nods his helm, "That is a brilliant idea," he murmurs, "Take him to the pits. Let him think about what he's just thrown away."

Blitzer steps forward swiftly and cuffs Deadlock's limp servos behind his back before forcibly turning him and pushing him toward the exit. Her long finger digits are dug into his shoulder and lower arm as they walk briskly through the base. As soon as they come upon an empty hallway the femme whirls the slightly smaller mech to face her and slams him into the nearby wall. Deadlock grunts at the sudden assault and the pressure of her arm pressed harshly against his neck plating.

"What the frag is wrong with you?!" she hisses at him angrily, sounding freakishly like her father. The only difference is that tears are gathering in her optics as she sneers at him, "Didn't it occur to you that this would happen?! You slagger!" She shoves him again, but pulls her arm away from his throat when he gags. He bends as soon as her arm allows him to and coughs violently as she turns away from him in exasperation. In her mounting anger she jabs her fisted servo into the wall with her denta bared in worried rage. Her old injuries protest her sudden sporadic movement and begins to throb in complaint. The femme tries not to let it show, but Deadlock recognizes the wince on her faceplates and instantly becomes worried.

"Blitzer-" he tries but is cut off when she points a finger digit in his faceplates and growls to silence him. It is quiet but for a nano-klik_ (second)_.

"Deadlock, what were you thinking?" Blitzer snarls as she starts to pace back and forth in front of the cuffed mech. Regret knifes through him as he notices that the glisten in her optics is growing without restraint now. "You promised!" her tears are now spilling down her cheek plates as she glares at him. He vocals fall into a broken whisper that is barely audible, "You promised you'd always be there."

Deadlock can feel his spark constricting with guilt.

"Hey," he says softly, "I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."

"But for how long?" she asks sadly.

"You know me better than that," Deadlock chuckles lightly, wishing again that he could hug the hurting femme, "Megatron and Galvatron had better have some serious mechs in their subspaces to actually stand a chance against me," he boasts puffing his chest out. A tiny smile ghosts across her lip plates at this before she quickly wipes away her tears and continues to lead him down the hall when she hears someone coming up the hall behind them. As they walk he notices her optics continuously moving to his cuffed servos then searching the hall. A steely determination is ingrained in her faceplates as they turn another corner toward the darkness of the gladiatorial pit's holding cells. "Don't," the white mech warns her softly.

"Don't what?" she hisses in irritation.

"I know that look," Deadlock whispers over his shoulder at her, " and whatever you are planning, don't do it."

"I have to-" Blitzer's vocals stop abruptly as a Decepticon grounder rounds the corner casually. The grounder stops in his tracks at the sight of them. Both mech and femme walk calmly passed the grounder as his optics turns somewhat bewildered at the sight of Galvatron's S.I.C. being led down the hall in stasis cuffs. As soon as they get out of sight of the random mech, Blitzer continues, "...get you out of here!"

"No," Deadlock orders, his tone commanding, "you will not risk your safety for me. I got myself into this mess so I will get myself out." He stops to look into the tall femme's optics before he adds, "I don't ever want to catch you risking anything for me. Tempestfire needs you, Blitzer... Do you understand?"

The purple and black femme nods her helm reluctantly as her optics fall to the ground. She knows he is right, but that doesn't make it any less painful. She then ushers Deadlock to the entrance of gladiatorial pits. They pass several holding cells, filled with sneering and scowling traitors, thieves, and the occasional blue-sighted bot before she finally stops at an empty one and holds it open for Deadlock. He pauses at the entrance to allow her to remove his stasis cuffs and turns to offer her a reassuring smile. Her faceplates reveal nothing, no trace of the hidden struggle in her spark. Her optics do. She grips the bars tightly in her servos as her red, spark-broken orbs find the mech's through the adamantium cubical. She wants to say something. He can see it in the subtle jerk of her lip components, instead she scowls deeply at him before she turns and saunters away. She keeps her helm held high and her stride measured, and if Deadlock hadn't knew any better, he would have never guessed that she cared.

He stands still until the last of her pede-falls die into the distance before he turns into his new living quarters. It is sparse, the only furnishing being a crude berth in one corner.

Deadlock walks over to it and sit down on its surface heavily. A deep vent escapes his systems and he runs his servos over his faceplates. What he did just now tops every stupid thing he's ever even thought of doing. Regret shoots momentarily through his spark and he wonders fractionally why couldn't have just kept his mouthplates shut, if only for Blitzer and Tempestfire... he knows why. He couldn't stay. Not after what his faction did to Praxus. The raw guilt still tears through his spark in heavy waves and Deadlock lowers his helm into his servos. He couldn't do it anymore; offline innocents, cause pain, wreck havoc, and for what? For nothing to change and for more endless slaughter?

No. He is done with this faction, with 'Master' Galvatron, and with this whole slagging war.

* * *

Blitzer returns to her father's oversized office that she could really only describe as a throne room. It is at the very top of Darkmount and is completely bare besides the large platform and the throne he is sitting on. Blitzer glances quickly around the room and sees Arachnid standing to her creator's left with two of her Insecticons with her. Sentry stands silently to her father's right, observing as he always does.

"Blitzer," Galvatron greets as he spots her enter.

"Yes?" Blitzer asks, standing to her full height proudly. She is by far the tallest fembot that ever lived on Cybertron and it is a fact that most mechs that she meets are usually well put in line by a single glare from her.

Galvatron's optics scan quite proudly over his daughter's tall built before he sits up straighter. He is smiling as he slowly rises off of his throne, "Now that Deadlock is no longer in our ranks, I find myself in need of a new Second in Command." Blitzer's optics flit to Arachnid, who is staring menacingly back at her and the larger femme feels an uneasy feeling fill her spark as Galvatron starts his typical predatory circle around her. She keeps her features carefully void of emotions and waits patiently for him to continue. "It would please me if you would fill this vacancy, daughter," Galvatron says as he stops in front of her with his servos clasped behind him.

"What!?" Arachnid's enraged howl fills the room before any coherent thoughts can form in Blitzer's processor. Creation and Creator both turn to look at the spider femme who's purple optics flash with anger as her eight legs raise her upward in her passion. "That rank is mine!" she hisses and Galvatron's optic ridges pop up in mild surprise.

"Really?" the warlord asks as he walks toward the slight femme. He comes to a stop in front of her and leans menacingly in toward her, and though her many limbs make her taller he still towers over her, "Have I given you the implication that I offered it to you?"

Arachnid takes a fearful step backwards as she lowers her gaze, "No, my lord," she manages to say without stuttering too badly.

Blitzer narrows her optics.

"Creator," she calls to Galvatron and the large mech turns to look at the tall purple fembot. "Let her speak," she requests with a slight demand hidden in her vocals. Galvatron smirks at his creation's cleverness and steps away from the spider fembot.

Cybertron's moons shine brightly down into the roofless throne room as the two femmes stare at one another from different sides of the large chamber. The spider bot sneers at the younger femme as she strides forward confidently on her many legs. She holds no fear for Blitzer in her optics.

"I have worked for this rank for vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_," she hisses at Blitzer, who doesn't even blink. Arachnid's spider legs curl to her back and she saunters forward on her two legs, femininely swaying her hips, "...and I'm not going to let some spoiled, little glitch of a daddy's girl come in and take it from me." Galvatron's optics sharpen in concealed anger, but Blitzer holds her servo in his direction, telling him this is her fight and that she could handle Arachnid. "Nobody likes you, Blitzer," Arachnid sneers up the younger femme as she stops in front of her.

Blitzer raises her chin spitefully, reminding Arachnid just how tiny she is, the top of the shorter femme's helm barely reaches the beginning of Blitzer's chest armor. She stares down at the femme until she sees the spider begin to squirm under her scrutiny and finally she leans forward just like her father had done moments earlier.

"Says the spider," Blitzer retorts easily with a smirk.

Indignation flashes in the spider femme's optics and she raises her servo to trap Blitzer with her sticky webbing. With lightning speed, the targeted femme knocks the spider's arm harmlessly to the side so the webbing shoots over her shoulder and slams her opposite fist into Arachnid's faceplates. The brute force behind the hit sends the slight femme sailing; she rolls harshly across the floor, sparks flying. She lifts her helm with a snarl only to find that her opponent is already upon her.

Blitzer effectively pins the spider's eight legs under her body and draws her subspace cannon. Blitzer smiles in false sweetness down at Arachnid before she just as quickly put her cannon away and lets the spider bot up off the floor.

"You're lucky that I don't anger easily," Blitzer says, looking down at Arachnid, "and that I don't want the position."

Arachnid's helm snaps up, her surprised optics meeting Blitzer's. Something like suspicion takes the place of the surprise and when she sees that Blitzer isn't joking it is replaced by disbelief. The spider bot sends a glare up at her, still angry that she had been defeated so easily.

Blitzer leaves the femme to wallow in her self-pity of making herself look like an utter fool in front of her master and approaches her creator. "Creator," Blitzer says as the mech watches at her with hard optics, "I am honored by your offer, but I still have much to learn."

Galvatron's gaze intensifies, but he gives no clues as to what he might be thinking. Blitzer holds her vent in, hoping for something, anything, to indicate that maybe they could go back to the way they were before Extractor's deactivation. Where she wasn't just another soldier in his ranks, but his daughter.

Finally the warlord smirks. "I doubt that," he says with his smile growing.

Unconsciously, Blitzer's servo goes to the three scars marring her upper abdomen, thinking of her failure to protect her brother and of that wretched Autobot. He is wrong. She still has much to learn.

Her actions cause Galvatron's smile to slip away quickly and she can see his optics already distancing from her. Her spark aches as she feels her father detach himself a little more and pull away from their bond that was once so strong.

"Very well," Galvatron replies, sounding almost dead, "Arachnid, you are promoted to Second in Command, effective immediately."

* * *

Prowl enters the still Med Bay as quietly as possible so as to not alert its keeper of his presence. It is late into the lunar cycle_ (night)_ and if Ratchet finds him sneaking around like a fugitive he will get a wrench to the helm for sure. He has an excuse in case the worst should occur. He had been working late overseeing the search teams at Praxus, didn't get back until now, and he had wanted to see how Jazz is doing.

Prowl comes to a stop next to Jazz's berth, his optics searching his friend's torn mainframe. The injuries are extensive. There is a deep gash on the mech's right upper arm, a stab wound on his side, and another just a few centimeters to the right of his spark chamber. It must have been one pit of a fight if the Decepticon sent Jazz back like this.

Prowl vents deeply as he pulls a chair next to Jazz's berth and sits down heavily. They had found a lot of young orphans this cycle_ (day)_. It never got any easier. The one that got to everyone was the little, blue doorwinger that had to watch his Creators offline in the attack.

His morose mood worsens as he tries and fails not to think of all the deactivation the last few cycles_ (days)._ So many have been needlessly slaughtered. His own kind is nearly on the brink of extinction. Firefly is gone... Jazz? He could be next. Prowl instantly pushes the thought away; Jazz is too stubborn to be offed so easily.

"Hey Prowler," Jazz croaks as if to prove Prowl's point, pulling the H.T. back to the present. The saboteur attempts a feeble joke, "You look near deactivation."

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?" Prowl jests back with a small smile.

Jazz snorts, "Well, at least he didn't mess up my pretty face," he mutters wryly. Prowl's smile grows and Jazz looks pleased with himself for a moment before he suddenly asks, "How's Bee been?"

Prowl's smile fades into nothing and his optics go to his pedes to avoid looking at Jazz, "I have not seen him since yester-cycle_ (yesterday)_."

"Prowl, why are you doing this to him?" Jazz asks as he struggles to sit up. Prowl has to restrain himself from ordering the silver mech to lay back down as Jazz pursues the topic, "He's your son!"

"One cycle he will ask what happened to his Carrier," Prowl starts, looking down at his servos. "I will have to tell him that she offlined protecting him and that the reason I was not there is because I chose this," he gestures to indicate the Autobot base with something like self-loathing coming to his faceplates. "Service to my faction, over her."

"The disappointment he will feel that you weren't there for his Carrier will be nothing toward the hate he will have for you if you just abandon him now," Jazz argues as he winces against the pain in his middle.

"He is the only thing I have left of her, and I want to be a part of his life, I do," Prowl admits with his optics still downcast, "but if I do, as the Autobot Head Tactician I will continuously have to choose my faction over my creation and I do not think I can do that. He doesn't deserve that... She doesn't deserve that." He finally meets his friend's gaze and Jazz sighs in a quiet defeat. He lets himself flop back on the berth and immediately groans.

"I shouldn't have done that," he bites out.

Prowl watches the mech closely for any sign that his injuries have reopened, "Maybe the next time I order you back to the ship, you will listen," the H.T. says, half scolding.

"Yeah, I doubt that. But, hey, you can keep dreaming of the cycle you outrank me," Jazz groans out with a smirk on his lip plates. Prowl arches both of his optic ridges at the mech and is about to retort when a new set of vocals sounds from the Med Bay entrance.

"I heard you got slagged, mech."

Both friends turn to see Hot Rod strolling toward them with an arrogant smirk on his faceplates. Prowl's optics narrow at the young mech and he wonders what Hot Rod is still doing up, curfew was joors_ (1 joor=6.5 earth hrs.)_ ago. Something on Hot Rod's servos catches Prowl's optics and upon closer inspection he finds that it is dried energon that was hastily cleaned off. A few scuffs on the mech's frame also look less than a joor or two old and Prowl quickly deduces the mech has been in a fight recently. Probably not a very friendly one, from the looks of it, and judging by the nonexistent injuries on him, it doesn't take a genius to figure out exactly who won.

"If you've just come to gawk mechlet, feel free to leave," Jazz grips grumpily.

"You have barely been under old Wrench's care for two joors and already you sound like him," the younger mech says as he stops next to Jazz's berth. The silver mech scowls playfully up at Hot Rod and makes a pretend motion of hitting him over the helm with a wrench. The motion would have made Hot Rod laugh, but the strain of the movement makes Jazz intake sharply and whatever humor might have been showing on the tri-colored mech faceplates vanishes. "So..." Hot Rod begins casually, "who do I have to offline?" His demeanor is relaxed, but both Jazz and Prowl can see his is deathly serious. The friends share a look before Jazz turns his gaze back to the tri-colored mech.

"No one, mechlet, I got this," the saboteur says in a mock offended tone.

"That's good," Hot Rod laughs, "because I would hate to find the mech and take him out in less than a nano-klik_ (second)_."

"Sure you would," Jazz says dryly, looking unimpressed.

Hot Rod then seems to put two and two together as he realizes he is standing openly in front of Prowl and just how late it is. "Well, I'm off to my quarters," the mech says with a slag-eating grin on his lip plates, "like the good, little mech I am." He is backing away as he swings his arms rather sheepishly. As he is maneuvering himself toward the exit his optics land on something farther into the Med Bay. Emotion flashes in the mech's optics before a self-satisfied leer replaces his sheepish one and he leaves without another word.

Both remaining mechs turn their optics at the same time to see that Hot Rod had been looking at the still in stasis Quick-plot. Jazz and Prowl share another concerned glance. Maybe Elita was right about him... There hadn't been an ounce of remorse on the mech's face when he had seen the damage he had done.

The pair sits in a long silence, contemplating the cycle's unpleasant events.

"It doesn't have to be like that," Jazz says groggily, halfway into recharge and Prowl looks at him in question. "With Bee," the silver mech clears his vocal pipes, "one cycle you'll regret not being there for him and, trust me mech, there is no way to turn back time to make it right. Firefly knew you are way too loyal for your own good and noble to a fault," Jazz snickers lightly and blinks rapidly behind his unrepaired, cracked visor to keep himself awake, "She knew you could never leave your faction... sometimes I think that's what she loved the most about you... she still thought you were going to make a great Creator, though, and she was right, Prowler." Jazzes vocals crackle with exhaustion, "You're being a great Creator now by putting Bee first even though it's hard, but what that mechlet really needs right now... is you." Jazz slowly falls deep into recharge, but he manages to murmur with his last conscious moments, "So go be a dad..."

Maybe Jazz was right... As much pain as the memories that came with the mechling caused, Prowl couldn't help the love that was growing in his spark for his creation. He just wants the sparkling to have his best chance, but maybe Bumblebee's best chance is with him. The black and white mech dared to let his spark hope that maybe he did have a chance to have part of his family back. He feels shame course through his wires that he even once thought that Firefly would understand why Ironhide was caring for Bumblebee and not him.

It isn't going to be easy, but maybe Bumblebee would help with the pain of his lost mate instead of cause it. He had to try, for her.

Prowl stands, momentarily silencing his internal battle, and gives his recharging friend a relieved smile at his climbing health.

"You are disturbing my patient, Prowl," a grumpy voice sounds from the doorway of Ratchet's office. The H.T. turns tiredly to the medic as the bot strides up next to him. "He was very lucky," Ratchet says as he scans the silver bot on the berth.

"He will be alright then?" Prowl asks gingerly and the medic merely nods. "What about him?" Prowl gestures to his old mentor and Ratchet's gaze settles on Quick-plot.

"Two collapsed vents, severed limbs, fractured faceplates, breached spark chamber, the list goes on and on," Ratchet pauses to rub his optics in exhaustion, "the mech must have been really angry." Prowl nods numbly as he recalls the anger in Hot Rod's optics that day. "Maybe Elita knows what she is talking about, this behavior... it started after Metropolis," Ratchet mutters lowly to no one in particular. The medic turns to look at the H.T. and quickly proceeds to scan him as he takes in the mech's haggard features. He looks at the readings and Prowl watches his features furrow in worry before he looks back up at the doorwinger. "Prowl, your..." Ratchet hesitates for a moment, "your broken bond is ready to be sealed off."

Prowl's spark plummets at the repulsive thought of sealing off his mate forever. He takes a small faltering step back and Ratchet's optics hold sympathy for him. As the tactician forcibly calms himself, he slowly nods his helm in agreement and makes his way to a medical berth. He had known this was coming eventually. It was foolish to push it so far to the back of his processor. Prowl distracts himself by wondering internally if Ratchet has already sealed Bumblebee's broken bond. It will be traumatizing for the mechlet.

The black and white doorwinger sits on the berth, rigidly staring across the Med Bay as Ratchet works swiftly around him. All too soon Ratchet carefully taps on Prowl's chest plating to indicate that he wants the tactician to expose his spark. Prowl complies numbly as he tries not to think about the ache. Ratchet glances up worriedly at his patient's stoic optics before he quickly seals the fractured bond, forcing Prowl's spark to finally recognize the permanent loss of its mate.

A keening sob escapes the Prowl's vocalizer, almost causing the medic to jump in surprise. Several pitiful clicks come from the mech as he tries to hold his emotions in check and Ratchet wordlessly allows him to close his chest plating back over his spark. The medic lays a soft servo on his hurting friend's shoulder to indicate he will be there if Prowl needs him to be.

"Go recharge mech," Ratchet says in gruff gentleness.

Prowl nods mutely in compliance. He eases off the berth and trudges slowly out of the Med Bay without another word. He walks down the empty, dimly lit corridor toward the rec room for some much needed energon with his doorwings sagging in sorrow. His throatpipes feel clogged with an unvoiced sob as he tries to distract himself from the complete absence of Firefly by checking his internal chronometer. There is barely a joor_ (1 joor-6.5 earth hrs.)_ and a half left of the lunar cycle_ (night)_.

As he approaches the rec room a small pink and purple fembot emerges and Prowl recognizes her as Twinkle, Firefly's friend. Her faceplates are tired, indicating that she hasn't recharge well in a while. The femme's optics darken with malice when she spots him and she strides purposefully toward him. Prowl pauses and waits on her, knowing all too well by the look in her optics that this encounter is not going to be pleasant.

"Good evening-cycle," Prowl greets her politely. Twinkle smacks the H.T. harshly across the cheek with her tiny servo, causing the mech's faceplates to sting with what he felt was a well-deserved pain.

"That," she hisses angrily, "was for Firefly and Bumblebee."

She stalks away from him and the H.T. can hear her cooling fans blasting. Prowl stands stone still, unmoving, until the femme's stomping pede falls round the corner behind him. His jaw clenches tightly against the mutinous noises his vocalizer is trying to release. He will not cry again. It is illogical.

Slowly he releases the vent he was holding. He has little to no doubt that Twinkle will be giving him an even more severe tongue lashing sometime in the present for his past misdeeds in not automatically assuming care of Bumblebee. There will be no need for her to do so, Prowl decides.

Making up his processor, he hesitantly makes his way to Ironhide's quarters. The black and white mech tries in vain to still his erratic spark pulse as he nears the weapons specialist's room and ultimately his creation. Prowl halts at the doorway, his venting slightly uneven with nerves. Is this the right course of action? Logically his processor keeps telling him the mechlet has a much better chance with Ironhide, but emotionally his spark tells him that he needs Bumblebee just as much as the sparkling needs him.

Prowl gathers his courage and knocks twice. As he waits in the hall he fights the illogical and cowardly urge to run and hid when he hears pede-falls approaching the door from the inside. The door opens roughly and Ironhide peers at Prowl blearily while holding a wide awake sparkling in his servo. Bee's optics light up when he sees Prowl and he shrieks in delight while looking at Ironhide to check if the big black mech is seeing the same thing.

"Prowl?" Ironhide asks while looking around the hall to see if maybe the base is under attack.

"I came to see if perhaps you needed help with the sparkling," the doorwinger says, standing rigidly in the hall. A confused look crosses the older mech's features before he grunts in agreement and hands the thrilled little bot over to the smaller mech.

"He's hungry again and I'm tired," Ironhide mutter. The black mech spares one last look at the pair before he closes his door. Prowl can hear the weapons specialist hit his berth solidly and barely an astro-second_ (1/2 an earth sec.)_ later a loud snore comes through the closed door.

Prowl stares down at the baby bot in his arms, who peers whole heartedly back up at him with a large, beautiful smile spread across his tiny face. Prowl's own smile slowly appears and grows. The sparkling gurgles in excitement and bounces up and down in Prowl's secure grip.

As they travel down the base's hallways Prowl couldn't help but feel lighter than he had for orns_ (weeks)_ though that sounds highly illogical to his processor. Just as father and son draw near the rec room Bumblebee reaches for his Creator's faceplates, gently placing both of his tiny servos on each side of Prowl's cheek plating. The sparkling gazes sweetly up at his favorite bot on the base.

"Bee miss," he says softly, the words unmistakably plain.

Prowl's steps falter slightly as he stares down at Bumblebee in shock, but his smile slowly returns, slightly sad this time as he gazes into those familiar optics. He is never ever letting go, he decides as he gazes down at the little mechlet.

"I missed you too," he whispers.

* * *

_There will soon (in about one or two chapters) be a time lapse chapter because the action is going to start slowing down and some time has to pass before the story can continue, so you've been forewarned._

_Also, in the next chapter I will go further into the whole sealing off of the broken bond thingy... _

_Let me know what you all think. Reviews are craved. Constructive criticism is welcome. Speculation of future events is adored. _


	14. Chapter 13

_Well, this one is a bit shorter than some of the others are, but I'm still pretty happy with how it turned out. It ties up the ends that couldn't be left loose when I post the next chapter, a.k.a The Time Lapse! Gah! Those always make me nervous because I find them extremely hard to write. Anyway, this story will be progressing a lot faster after the time lapse so you've been warned._

_I hope you all enjoy this chapter... its kind of feely for poor Ratchet, Prowl, and Bee. You get a little bit of pity for Quick-plot, and a tad of sad Ironhide back story... but I think it all ends on a pretty good note..._

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

* * *

Ratchet sighs heavily and rubs a servo over his faceplates with his weariness finally starting to seep through into visability. Sealing Prowl's broken bond had taken far more out of the medic than he ever would admit to anyone. Broken bonds are the worst part of the medical field, in Ratchet's opinion, and he had long since lost count how many mechs, femmes, and sparklings he has lost to that very thing. If the victim survives the initial agonizing break, then they're usually in the clear, unless they grow depressed and decide to off themselves. Ratchet could easily say, without any hesitation, that sealing off the bond was the worst part by far. By the time of the sealing it is no longer physically painful for the victim, but the emotional pain that comes with it was often so great that Ratchet saw some of the strongest mechs and femmes break down and cry like sparklings.

Ratchet can clearly recall the first bond he'd ever sealed. It was many vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ ago when he was still under the tutelage of the old, talented, fembot medic, Solar. Back when the war was hardly even a speck on the horizon, the designation Megatron was first being spoken with growing apprehension in the High Council, and rebellion was stirring among the lower caste. It had been a huge mech that he'd never seen before then.

Ironhide.

Ironhide had received two broken bonds the same cycle_ (day) _and was returning per Solar's orders to have them sealed off. Solar wanted Ratchet to gain experience in the area of sealing shattered bonds off and, with Ironhide's growling permission, Ratchet was the one who performed the procedure. The mech had never come close to deactivation from the break, but after the sealing, Ratchet had never seen a mech cry so hard.

Ratchet had befriended Ironhide after that at Solar's request so that someone could keep an optic on the young, depressed mech. A deep, long-lasting friendship was born there and Ratchet learned soon after that Ironhide's bond break was from two sisters, barely old enough to be in their final frames that had been deactivated cruelly after accidentally witnessing a burglary in their own home. Ratchet also heard the strong mech speak of a younger brother a few times, but he never had many details about him since the mechling had apparently left the youth sector several cycles_ (days)_ after his sisters' deactivation. Ironhide had tried to track the youngling down many times, but had had no luck. It was like the mechlet had just disappeared.

Ratchet pulls himself back to the present with more dread growing in his gears. Soon he will have to seal off Bumblebee's broken bond, and he hates even to think on the horrible business. To be absolutely truthful, the medic was beyond relieved when the twins, Code Blue and Flat-line, insisted on being the medics on-scene during the rescue efforts at Praxus. The sheer number of bonds the two probably have already had to seal off would've grated steadily on the older mech's hardened resolve. It would have probably worn completely through his already thinning sanity... Ratchet can only hope Code Blue and Flat-line are holding onto theirs.

A groan catches the C.M.O.'s attention and he quickly scans Jazz to make sure there is nothing bothering the mech. The silver saboteur is deep in recharge, wounds healing nicely. The groan sounds again and Ratchet whirls around to face the only other mech in his care since he had just recently released Button, the only Autobot soldier that had survived the Praxus slaughter.

Quick-plot.

Ratchet quickly approaches the black and grey mech, who's optics are attempting to flicker online. One of the ex-tactician's finger digits twitch slightly as the mech slowly comes out of stasis and he moans in pain while struggling to pull a breath into his damaged vents.

"R-ratch-et, it…hur-rts," Quick-plot gasps in agony.

The medic doesn't dwell on how often he has heard those words throughout his career as a medical officer, from bots of all ages. Sometimes it has more effect on him than others. This is not one of those times. Despite the anger Ratchet still feels for the Quick-plot's betrayal that eventually lead to Sentinel Prime's demise, his medic coding takes over and he pulls a high dosage pain killer from his subspace and injects it into the older mech.

The medic turns the ventilator that Quick-plot is hooked to up three notches since his online frame needs to cycle air more often than when he was in stasis. The machine immediately adjusts the amount of air being regulated through the patient, helping the damaged mech's vents to expand and deflate in a steady manner while his self-repair systems struggle to mend the mutilation he had endured.

Quick-plot relaxes completely as the painkillers take ahold of his pain receptors and dull the sensors. His optics, still blue, glaze over in a drugged way as he gazes up at the medic gratefully.

"How long have I been in stasis?" he asks, his vocals fairly even at the lack of pain coursing through his systems.

"Four cycles_ (days)_ now," Ratchet supplies, "Try to get your rest, you need it after the beating you received." Quick-plot's optical ridge furrows together at the reminder and he looks about to say something so Ratchet cuts him off, "Rest. You're lucky to even be online." Ratchet had been trying to keep the contempt from his vocals, but his last words cause him to fail miserably. Quick-plot's optics dim slightly in sadness at his old friend's obvious dislike for him and the medic can see in the former Autobot's faceplates that he is ashamed of what happened during the time of the Metropolian Massacre.

"I wasn't meeting any Decep—decepticons," the injured mech whispers as a vent hitches his speech a bit, "I found a Decepticon spy with the Forge, and I took it from him."

"Then why wasn't there a Decepticon spy's offlined body recounted in the Wreckers' field reports?" Ratchet asks as he raises an optic ridge in a clear sign that he doesn't believe a single word that is coming from Quick-plot's vocalizer. The medic sees the injured mech's expression become almost desperate to prove his words as the truth.

"I disposed of the Con and moved away from there. I knew there had to be more on their way, so I didn't stick around," Quick-plot says before a hacking cough roughs his systems, making Ratchet shush him ill temperedly. "I was on the move when the Wreckers found me," he struggles to continue, despite Ratchet giving him a warning look, with his vocals becoming even more hoarse with each word.

"Don't make me put you back into stasis," Ratchet warns his patient, waggling a finger digit threateningly in the mech's faceplates.

"Just tell Piston, or even Prowl, to go through my memory files! You'll see that I'm telling the truth!" Quick-plot tries to yell, causing energon to leek from his mouth and down his cheek plating. Ratchet immediately moves to the mech's side with his lip components thin and accesses his inter controls with his medical computer, inducing instant stasis. The mech immediately falls silent and his optics dim into black holes.

Silence fills the Med Bay, interrupted only by the sound of Quick-plot's ventilator working steadily to keep the now unconscious mech at a stable internal temperature. Ratchet remains standing by the black and grey, former Autobot and decides to allow one of the tactical bots to do exactly what Quick-plot suggested. The memory scanning of prisoners, which is exactly what Quick-plot is, is usually left to Jazz, but the saboteur may be out of commission for a while. Ratchet needs to know if maybe, just maybe, his old friend is not past redemption.

Ratchet spends a long while keeping a close optic on Jazz, seeing as the mech had just been injured earlier that solar cycle _(day)_, but as time passes slowly it is easy to tell that, given time, the mech will heal just fine. Apparently he is more resilient than everyone gives him credit for. Ratchet snorts at the thought and muses that it would probably take Megatron himself to actually succeed in deactivating the stubborn, silver scrapper.

The medic checks his chronometer with his optics low in fatigue and frowns when he sees that it has been far too long since he's done anything to bring up his energy reserves. He needs to recharge... or at least go refuel. Who knows what this cycle will bring. The only thing he can think of for certain is Bumblebee's bond that needs to be sealed off.

Ratchet recoils inwardly at the mere suggestion in his processor but forces himself into reason. Bumblebee must have his bond sealed. If he does not do it, then the mechling will continue to wait for his deactivated Carrier to return and fix the tattered bond when, in reality, that will never happen. He needs to have it sealed so that the true psychological and emotional healing can begin.

With his processor forcibly made up Ratchet sends a comm link request to Ironhide, then another when the first is not answered. By the fourth ping Ironhide answers with a tired, grouchy 'what'.

: I would appreciate it immensely if you would bring Bumblebee passed the Med Bay, : Ratchet says, ignoring his friend's timeless bad mood.

: Prowl stopped by a while ago and asked if he could watch Bee, the thing wouldn't go into recharge so I let him, : Ironhide says his 'voice' growing suspicious. : Why, is there something wrong with Bee? : he asks, his worry becoming clearly evident.

: No, nothing spark-threatening. Thank you, Ironhide, : Ratchet answers, then ends the link.

So Prowl sought comfort and company from the sparkling? Ratchet is now torn at what to do. On one servo, he doesn't want to comm Prowl to bring Bee in seeing as the mech had just had his own broken bond sealed off and could very easily not take the sparkling's reaction to the sealing well. Sparklings always take the sealing hard... But on the other servo, Prowl is Bumblebee's favorite bot on the base, and if anyone is going to be able to help the sparkling through the emotional shock of being forced to let go of the bond it will be Prowl. Processor made up once more, Ratchet sends a link request to Prowl, which the tactician answers almost immediately.

The green and yellow medic hesitates several nano-kliks_ (seconds)_ before he sends his request to the tactician, : Prowl, would you bring the mechling to the Med Bay? :

: Why, is something the matter? : asks Prowl. The same worry that was present in Ironhide's vocals is found in the H.T.'s.

: He requires his bond to be sealed off, : Ratchet says cautiously with some concern of how the doorwinger would react to his decision. He doesn't have to wait long to find out.

: No, : comes the doorwinger's lightening fast reply in a tone that makes the medic flinch slightly. He is tempted to say 'ok' and let the job for a later date, but Bumblebee has to realize he needs to move on. As long as the mechling's spark thinks the bond has a chance to be reestablished he will wait for his Carrier to come back.

: Prowl, : the medic says tiredly in exasperation. There is a long silence on the tactical mech's end and Ratchet almost thinks he ended the link, until he speaks abruptly.

: Very well, : Prowl replies with stiff cooperation, : We will be there in a klik_ (1.2 earth min)_. : Prowl ends the link without waiting for Ratchet's reply and the medic knows the Praxian is quite upset with him.

Prowl arrives exactly a klik_ (1.2 eath min.)_ later with the tiny, yellow mechlet perched in one servo. Ratchet offers Bumblebee a reassuring smile before he gestures to his office so the sparkling wouldn't wake his recharging patients with his cries. Prowl moves rigidly in front of the medic and into the office with Bumblebee making happy noises as they pass. As the medic closes his office doors, he turns to find Prowl has set the sparkling on his desk and has taken a seat only an arm's length from the mechlet, looking almost as lifeless as a drone.

Ratchet approaches Bumblebee with dread crawling through his systems at the business at servo.

"Hello, Bee," Ratchet greets the mechling, who grins sweetly up at him before uttering a warbled 'hi'. Ratchet's faceplates twist in confusion before he swiftly looks at Prowl who is _smiling proudly_ at the yellow mechlet. "He can speak already?!" the medic asks in disbelief. The tactician nods, his closed smile never leaving his faceplates. That is rather strange of Prowl, who hardly ever smiles except for when Jazz is about. "That is extraordinary!" Ratchet says as he scans the mechlet, "Sparkling's usually don't speak until their first upgrade." He mules over the new development for a moment longer before he gets back to his task, "Now, Bee, I want you open the outer layer of your chest plates, okay?" Ratchet uses his servos to motion to the sparkling's chassis and makes an opening motion with them. "Do you think you can do that?"

Bumblebee trills lightly in question then puts on servo on his chest plate with his optics trained on Ratchet. "Eh?" he asks the medic to see if he is doing it right.

Ratchet spends several kliks_ (1 klik= 1.2 earth min.)_ patiently showing the sparkling how to open his chest plating and when the mechlet finally catches on, Ratchet praises him adequately with a gentle pat on the helm before he scans the mechling's spark. He frowns in obvious dissatisfaction and Prowl sits up straighter than before, if at all possible, and questions what is wrong.

"I was rather hoping the sparkling would have another bond by now," Ratchet mutters, "I fear that when I seal off his Carrier bond, his spark will feel abandoned. Having another bond to turn to would take away some of the hurt and the shock, be it a friendship bond, or even a guardian bond." Prowl's optics flit to the floor as if an inner turmoil is raging within him and silence stretches over the three bot's in the C.M.O.'s office. "Maybe I should comm Ironhide," Ratchet mumbles to himself.

Prowl's helm whips up suddenly, "I will do it," he says decisively, his optics burning with determination.

"Prowl," Ratchet warns with his optic ridge furrowing, "the sparkling might go to the youth sector, are you sure you want to bond with him if you will just have to part?"

If the sparkling is sent to the youth sector the bond that would be established between him and his main caretaker would suffice to help the sparkling forget about Prowl, but the tactician would feel pain at the mechling's absence. It would be added agony upon his recent loss. Did the mech want to suffer?

"I have calculated the actual chances of Bumblebee still being sent to a youth sector and it is at an all time low of 26.178%. It is a risk I am willing to take, Ratchet," Prowl says without any inflection to his vocals to indicate what he is thinking.

"I just don't think that... I just..." Ratchet flounders for an excuse to save the doorwinger from the potential spark ache that could come with the bond he is set on creating with the mechlet.

"I am not doing this for me," Prowl looks at Ratchet, optics pleading for the mech to understand, "I am doing it for Bumblebee."

The medic nods solemnly and then he swiftly, without warning, seals off the mechlet's broken bond.

* * *

Prowl's spark twists painfully as he watches Bumblebee's optics widen with horror as the deed is done The young mechlet scrambles away from Ratchet, who looks about as devastated as Bee, and snaps his chest plating back over his spark with such force that it jars his whole shivering frame. The yellow mechlet's optics dart around the room in panic as he searches for his Carrier and a pitiful cry makes its way from his vocalizer. The mechlet's vents begin to heave as he searches the faceplates of the bots he thought was his _temporary_ caretakers, realizing suddenly that there is nothing temporary about his situation. His Carrier is not coming back... Sobs rack the little, yellow frame and Bumblebee crumbles in a distraught pile on Ratchet's desk.

Not able to take his son's cries any longer, Prowl gently picks him up and cradles him to his chassis. The H.T. doesn't even bother to ask the C.M.O. for permission to request a bond and, without any hesitation or remorse, he activates the bond that has been festering ever since the first time he held his tiny son in the ruins of his home, Praxus. Bumblebee accepts the Creator/creation bond the instant Prowl sends the request and latches onto it with such desperation and severity that it almost sends the tactician reeling.

Bumblebee presses his helm against the spark of his creator with sad mews and tired optics with tears still streaming down his faceplates in torrents. His vents hitch harshly in a hiccup as he clings to Prowl in trepidation, wanting to be nearer to his spark.

"Whatever you did worked fantastically," Ratchet says, relief evident in his vocals.

"Do you need to check the new bond?" Prowl asks protectively as he holds his son close to his chest.

"I doubt the sparkling will be opening his chest plating for me for a while," Ratchet says dryly, "You can bring him back in to see me then if you feel anything strange at all with the established bond." Prowl nods in agreement before Ratchet fixes him with a glare and gripes to hide how badly he feels about causing the mechling pain, "Now go get some recharge like I told you to, before I knock you upside the processor!"

Prowl nods to the medic gratefully and without another word the tactician leaves the med bay for the second time that lunar cycle, but with entirely different emotions swirling through his spark. For the first time since Firefly has offlined, he feels he is doing what she would have wanted him too.

* * *

Elita lays awake on the berth she shares with Optimus, absentmindedly rubbing her abdomen where the little sparkling is no doubt growing. Oh Primus, give her strength. Every cycle that passes she grows more and more nervous about telling her sparkmate. The doubts in her processor are a constant taunt, and, even though it may be foolish, is a very real fear. She must tell him... If she were to go out onto the battlefield and something were to happen to her sparkling it would be her fault. Optimus would find out and he would never forgive her for not telling him... She would never forgive herself...

Elita vents deeply to gather her courage as the fear of losing her mate's trust outweighs her doubts. It's now or never.

"Optimus," she whispers lightly into the darkness, "are you in recharge?" For a split moment her spark is hammering in her chest plates and she hopes that he is in recharge, but then...

"Not anymore," Optimus teases sleepily as he rolls over to gather the small fembot into his large arms. She can feel the steady, calm beat of his spark as he holds her frame close to him and she tries to draw strength from his inner tranquility. "Can you not recharge?" comes his weary inquiry.

"No. No, not really," Elita sighs as she lays rather stiffly in her sparkmate's embrace. "Actually," she begins with her optics shinning brightly into the darkness with her growing nerves causing them to become unnaturally bright, "I need to tell you something."

"Hmmm?" Optimus mumbles as he rests his chin atop her helm. Maybe she should wait until morning when he is fully awake, and she is not quite so nervous and—

"I'm going to have a sparkling!" someone blurts loudly.

Elita feels her fans kick in as she realizes it was her. So much for waiting until morning. She lays nervously waiting for the mech's reaction.

"That's great sweet-spark," Optimus murmurs as he nestles back into a more comfortable position. Well... he took it amazingly in stride. The calm beat of his spark suddenly spikes and Elita feels her mech]s whole frame stiffen against her. Ever so slowly he sits up on their berth. "What?" his vocals sound much more awake now, but are suddenly strangled and afraid.

"I'm sorry Optimus," Elita whispers as she sits up next her mate and looks away from him.

"Why are you apologizing?" he sounds genuinely confused as he gently places his large finger digit under her petit chin to turn her helm to meet his glowing optics in the darkness.

Elita shakes her helm and her vocals crack as she manages to mumble out, "You said you want to wait and now I'm with sparkling and—I'm so sorry," she finishes with all of her doubts laid bare she has to struggle to keep her tears down, and Optimus can feel her devastation through their bond. He only pulls her to him and wraps his arms around her protectively as she sniffs in growing distress against his chassis.

"The timing could have been better," Optimus says softly above her helm and she can hear the wry smile in his words, "but that doesn't change the fact that this is amazing, exciting and... scary." Elita lets out a humorless laugh of agreement and shivers involuntarily as he rubs his servo against her back in comfort. "But it is, without doubt, the third best cycle of my existence," Optimus declares as he pulls away to look into her optics once more, his own portraying his joy and slight fear.

"What are the other two?" Elita asks, her vocals still shaking faintly from her near breakdown. Her bondmate softly strokes the digits of his right servo down her cheek plating with a smile.

"The cycle we bonded and the one we met... I can't really decide which order to place them in," he says with humor coloring his vocals and Elita giggles softly at her mate. He rarely ever attempts to joke, so it is always special when he tried, especially now that he is doing it for her.

They spend the next three breems_ (1 breem=8.3 earth min.)_ wrapped in each other's arms not feeling the need to fill the silence with words, both mech and femme thinking the same thing. What now? The dangers for them is now increased since their family is expanding. In the middle of the war how long will it take before one of them catches a stray bullet? And the most nagging question... What if Megatron finds out about their family? The warmonger would no doubt stop at nothing to destroy it.

The questions in her processor make her realize just how real the danger is, and terror for her mate and her unborn sparkling wells within her like a poison. Elita is sure Optimus can feel the fear spawning in her spark just as she can feel his growing with each passing moment in the quiet of their chambers. As if to reassure them both the mech tightens his hold around the fembot and she clings to him like a lifeline in the darkness of her dread and the monsters of fear that fight to be recognized.

"Don't worry, Lita," Optimus whispers to her through the blanket of darkness that engulfs them, "I will protect you both."

* * *

_It does end on a good note! (A little bit foreboding in a round-a-bout way, but positive none the less.) And yay! Elita finally told Optimus! And Prowl and Bee have their Creator/ Creation thingamabob now._

_Let me know what you all think. ;D_

_As a final word: Please tell me if it is still unclear of exactly what the sealing of a bond does or is for. I don't what to leave people hanging in the dark. Thanks._


	15. Chapter 14

_Okay... I am so sorry for the incredibly late update (seriously, I think its been nearly two months...) but I have a reason. My computer went all nuts and screwy and I just got it fixed recently and only got to updating now. I hope I still have all my readers... O.O Guys? You still there?_ _OH NO WHAT HAVE I DONE?! GAHHHAHAHAAAH! *insert pathetic blubbering of an author who hasn't written in a coon's age*_

_I will spare you the entire sob story and will get on to the update... and since I haven't updated in so long and this one is just a really short filler/time lapse chapter I will give you another one today... okie dokie Loki?_

_Enjoy... I hope, and let me know what you think at the end of it... because this is the first large leap in time I've done in the middle of a story and I'm kind of nervous about it..._

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

Orns_ (weeks)_ pass quickly and turn into deca cycles_ (months)_, then mega cycles_ (1 mega cycle= 6 months)_. With the fleeing time comes changes on Cybertron, for both factions, Decepticon and Autobot alike.

In the gladiatorial pits of Darkmount, Deadlock easily became Galvatron's champion. Every living thing that was placed in the arena with him was offlined, cleanly and effectively. He quickly became a favorite among the Darkmount troops as he surged through every battle, emerging as the victor with ease. He fought with brutal calmness that was nearly as disturbing as it was mesmerizing. With every fight, every step into the pit, and every spark he extinguished, he made his former master millions of credits... and he despised himself for it.

Blitzer continued to work for both Megatron and her father unit, Galvatron. Her grudge against Hot Rod grew stronger with every passing cycle_ (day)._ She managed, with great difficulty, to harness the anger that made her see red every time she heard that sickly designation spoken into keeping herself and Tempestfire safe from all the unruly Decepticon mechs that were now eyeing, not only Blitzer, but the younger femmeling as well. For despite Blitzer's refusals and roaring anger she had displayed when he first suggested it, Galvatron had commanded his medic to upgrade Tempestfire into her full grown frame so the femmeling could be useful to the Decepticon cause. Though the time for the upgrade had been near, it was still too early. Tempestfire is now constantly falling and tripping over her own two pedes when she walks, it is hard for her to control her much larger, yet still very small frame. Her spark exhausts itself trying to power her too-big frame.

Lucky for Tempestfire, she not only has Blitzer looking out for her during her awkward transition from her youngling frame to her fembot frame, but also Breakdown, when he isn't protecting Knockout, and Nighthawk, when he is assigned on business at Darkmount.

Though Blitzer and Nighthawk quickly became closer as friends after Deadlock's imprisonment, Megatron's S.I.C. wasn't Deadlock, and Blitzer missed the white mech dearly. She could hardly ever go to see him fight, for fear that Galvatron, who was becoming increasingly erratic, would accuse her of collaborating with a 'traitor' and throw her in the pits. Who then would look after her clumsy, little Tempestfire? She was sure that Deadlock understood this, and that he wouldn't hold the femme's absence against her.

Galvatron had eventually completely cut off his bond with Blitzer, leaving her devastated without the connection to her father. Her grief remained for barely three cycles_ (days)_ before it was quickly replaced with rage at the one who caused her father to withdraw from her. Hot Rod.

The anger the Autobots felt from the injustice of Praxus' destruction remained fresh and raw. The search for survivors had stopped, but they had found, over the course of many orns_ (weeks),_ above one hundred mechs, femmes, and younglings. The very fact that they managed to rescue so many of the survivors seemed to sedate the wrath of most Autobots, leaving only a select few still seething.

Over half of the rescued survivors gladly joined the ranks of the Autobot force, including Star, the femme that Chromia and Ironhide rescued. The femme seemed to have taken a liking to the weapons specialist, much to Chromia's displeasure. Though the black mech didn't seem to return any of the infatuation Star had for him, Chromia still found herself feeling jealous every time she caught a glimpse of the stupid, giggling femme next to Ironhide. Chromia's feelings of resentment only grew when Star began kindling a friendship with Elita. The light blue femme found herself, more often than not, using the excuse of the new stealth task force of femmes that she and Elita were composing to keep the two femmes from speaking. By making sure her sister stayed focused on the team she successfully (most times) managed to keep an admirable distance between Elita and Star. If Elita noticed what the light blue fembot was doing, she never mentioned it.

Optimus and Elita ultimately decided that it would be best if they kept Elita's pregnancy a secret from everyone, save for their closest friends and family (not counting Megatron, for obvious reasons). In order to keep everyone in the dark about the sparkling, Optimus was forced to allow his mate to remain on active duty, abet under the strict command that she always avoid any real conflict. Even with these rigid guidelines Optimus still made sure that when she went out she was accompanied by the best fighters, so that if it came down to an actual battle all she would really have to do is sit back and watch while they took care of the threat.

For this reason, every time Elita went out on a mission, Hot Rod usually joined her, by constant request of the femme. Optimus never denied her this since Hot Rod _did_ advanced through Ironhide's training faster than any of his brothers (Megatron included). If Elita1 was not safe with Hot Rod then she wouldn't be safe with anyone.

Unknown to her mate, Elita's real reason for asking for Hot Rod's presence was so that she could keep a close optic on the mech, who's behavior was growing more and more worrisome as time went on. Every mission they go on gives her a chance to try to figure out what is still silently eating away the mech's morality. As the time passed them by, Elita and her brother-by-bond had grown considerably closer, so she noticed immediately when the mech's optics began to appear hollowed and empty. It was hard for her to miss. When she attempted to speak with him about it, she was snubbed. Once she had blatantly came out and said to his faceplates that he needed help and that she was worried about him... after the initial explosion of terrifying anger, he had stalked off and no one saw him for almost three solar cycles_ (days)_ before he saw fit to return to the base.

Steadily, Hot Rod grew more hostile to everyone around him, surpassing even Ironhide in bad moods. His snappish and despicable attitude quickly taught everyone to stay away from the mech. Everyone, save for Springer, who repeatedly attempted to save their waning friendship, but was cut off with glares or inattentive audios, always gave the foul tempered mech a large margin of space when he stalked through the base, en route to his next mission.

As many grievances everyone could list off about the mech for his behavior, not one had a negative thing to say about the success rate of his missions. To his brothers and Elita, his tactics where questionable. No one could quite recall the last time that any Decepticon managed to walk away from the raging mech online, most meeting their end brutally at his pedes. Most bots really didn't care what his methods were, so long as he got the job done, which he did.

After several 'unexplainable' explosions, the Wreckers were sent back to their out lying post with Ironhide as their superior to keep them off the higher-ups' radar for a while. The big, black mech seemed to be the only one that the Wreckers slightly respected and halfway listened to. Ironhide found that he was secretly pleased with the arrangement, because no matter how much the slagging Wreckers annoyed him at least he didn't have to deal with whatever he was feeling for Chromia and whatever the frag was going on with Star.

Upon the Wrecker's departure, the twin medics, Code Blue and Flat-line, accompanied them. According to Ratchet, they were as skilled as they could ever become under his tutelage. Ratchet managed to send two of his best students off with a straight face as they moaned and groaned about how they would never get any recharge if they were at the same location as Wheeljack. With the twins graduated to their own patients and their own Medical Unit out in the middle of what they described as 'a potential offlining sentence in the making', Ratchet could then turn all his attention to his trainee medics Jolt, First Aid, and the newest medical apprentice addition, a femme designated Boomerang.

Another bot that was sent to the Wrecker post, much to everyone's surprise, was Twinkle. The femme had grown increasingly rough upon joining the Autobot ranks, and more often than not was reported by Chromia for insubordinance. So after doing a very brief stint in the femme stealth team led by Elita1 (who was hardly ever let out with the femmes) and Chromia, and getting reported nearly every mission, Optimus assigned her to her new post. To put it mildly the fembot hadn't taken too kindly to her assignment, thus only confirming her destination. Before her departure she sought out Bumblebee and found, with much surprise, that he was under Prowl's care. Seeing that Firefly's sparkmate was actually trying to amend the mistakes that he made regarding the sparkling prompted the fembot to apologize for striking Prowl. The entire exchange was tense and though Prowl could see that she genuinely was sorry for hitting him, he certainly did not miss that her dislike for him was still present.

After Prowl had taken over the care of Bumblebee he always made sure to make time for his creation no matter what responsibilities arose from his H.T. position. The bots on the base soon found the pair quite endearing. No one found the need to questioned why Prowl was caring for the orphan, except Optimus. The Prime kept his questions to himself, and hoped that Prowl wasn't getting too emotionally involved with the mechlet, who was more often than not found playing in the tactical office at Prowl's pedes. The youngling certainly was never not entertained as long as Prowl was there or, on the occasions that the tri-colored mech wasn't in an offlining mood, unwittingly helping Hot Rod win the already swooning femme's sparks. Prowl would get rather irritated at the younger mech and take him back, Hot Rod would find it amusing to rile the tactician, and would later swipe the mechling again, just to spite the black and white doorwinger.

When he wasn't help Hot Rod capture femme's sparks, Bumblebee sat in on a lot of Prowl and Optimus Prime's meetings, usually staying preoccupied in a corner with a spare datapad. Through these brief encounters the young Prime quickly grew attached to the sparkling himself, and would always inquire after Bumblebee's growth progress at the beginning of each meeting. Bumblebee seemed to pick up on the Prime's fondness toward him and Optimus quickly became his second favorite bot on the base, surpassed only by Prowl. Much to Optimus' dismay, he quickly fell to thrid place in the mechling's optics whenever Ironhide would return briefly to the base for meetings and reports.

Bumblebee's mental growth rate continued to stump Ratchet. The youngling began forming full coherent sentences when he should have barely been able to utter a simple greeting. He had an incredible imagination and proved more than once his quickly growing intelligence when he would outwit his babysitters with impossible hiding places and daring escapes. The only bot he could never fool, even if he really wanted to, was Prowl. With his advanced speech and his incredible neural growth it was very easy for many to forget that, even though Bee was a walking phenomenon, he was still just a baby bot showing off his intelligence to Prowl or his unfortunate babysitters; many treated him as though he was a youngling already and spoke to him accordingly, which resulted in him picking up on a rather inappropriate word for a mechlet to be saying. Needless to say, Prowl had hunted the mech down who had spoken such atrocities in front of the yellow mechlet, which turned out to be none other than Jazz himself.

Jazz's stay in the Medical unit was lengthened after that brief encounter.

After Quick-plot had come out of stasis, and as soon as both parties were physically able, Jazz went through his memory files and found the mech was indeed telling the truth. Quick-plot asked if it was possible to rejoin the Autobots. None of the bots on the Iacon council believed him but they decided he already paid greatly for his betrayal and a second chance was in order. Quick-plot eventually recovered from his extensive injuries and he now spends the lunar-cycles_ (nights)_ in the brig under the watchful optics of the brig guard and solar-cycles_ (days)_ he is accompanied by a guard to make sure he is sincere in his attempts to regain the Autobots' trust.

Much to Sonic-blaster's displeasure his charges, Torpedo and Firecracker, had recently received their final upgrade from Ratchet. The femmelets became both beautiful, young fembots that easily caught the optics of any and every single mech on the base; Sonic-blaster quickly fell into the role of protective guardian. Torpedo was thrilled with the mechs' attention, but her sister could not care less and truly didn't even notice, much to Sonic-blaster's pleasure. He was more than happy with the fact that he only had to worry over one femme in regards to the mechs.

He had to worry about Firecracker for an entirely different reason. The femme was reckless. Many bots pitied the Second-in-Command. The two femmes joined Elita's team by her request and were recently graduated from their guardian's class. Ironhide had made a special trip back to Iacon to see if Sonic-blaster was making a correct, unbiased decision by graduating the femmes. After spending a whole cycle_ (day)_ with the femme twins Ironhide was more than happy to head back to the Wreckers.

Arcee joined her sisters' stealth team and quickly becaming one of their top operatives. She continues to crush hopelessly on a mech that doesn't notice her in that way, but is starting to wonder if perhaps she is wrong about him as Hot Rod's hostility grows more and more each cycle. The friendship she has with Springer still continues to grow steadily and she is still completely unaware that her best friend is madly in love with her.

Springer had also joined the Autobot ranks after his one, and only, stay in the brig and joined Hot Rod accompanying Elita on missions or guarding Quick-plot during the solar cycle _(day)_. Springer couldn't help some of the bitter feelings he began feeling toward Hot Rod for possessing Arcee's spark without meaning to, and the tension between the two friends gradually raised as Springer became more fault-finding and Hot Rod became more faulty.

With all these changes happening around the Autobots, most of them for the worse, the feeling of foreboding doom became a regular inkling for everyone. The only thing that was going remotely well was that the Decepticons had suddenly grown quiet in their attacks. And even that wasn't a good thing, for where Decepticons are involved, no news wasn't good news. Everyone knew the evil in the sparks of Megatron and Galvatron was unchangeable, and that the Cons are undoubtably planning something even though all scouting and intelligence reports bring back nothing alarming. No one can deny the escalating tension, or that it is only a matter of time before the slag starts flying again and all pit breaks loose.

* * *

_Read and review! We authors love reviews! It's like worded happiness! O_O I need to sleep._


	16. Chapter 15

_The 2nd update as promised. I will not use an over abundance of words. Read... do not kill me at the end._

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

* * *

Optimus exits his and Elita's quarters early in the solar cycle_ (morning)_ and meets Prowl coming out of his quarters. Surprisingly Bumblebee isn't with the tactician and Optimus receives the urge to inquire about him and does so.

"He is still in recharge," Prowl answers as he locks the door to his own chamber. Optimus smiles at the mental image of the sparkling recharging and the mech's processor wonders slightly if this is how it's going to be when Elita has their sparkling. His smile only broadens at this and he finds that he is growing more and more fond of the idea with each passing cycle_ (day)_.

In that instant Optimus receives a comm link request from Red Alert to which he responds immediately, : Go ahead, Red Alert. :

: Prime, sir, we have an issue approaching the western gate, : Red Alert says with his vocals tight in peevishness.

: Send me the video feed, : Optimus says evenly and the security bot instantly obliges. The image of a large red, orange, and yellow mech approaching, to be more accurate he was staggering toward, the base's entrance. Oh Primus, he didn't. Optimus sighs and turns to Prowl with apologetic optics before he says, "I am needed at the western gate and I may need your assistance."

Prowl's gaze narrows at once with understanding and he nods quickly.

Both mechs arrive at the western entrance just as Hot Rod stumbles through the gate cursing at the guards, calling them every colorful word he knows and some he made up. The young mech places a servo on the wall of the base hallway to steady himself as an ill look flashes in his optics. He hunches over for several nano-kliks_ (seconds)_ before he slowly straightens and attempts to move forward.

Optimus stares in shock at finding his youngest brother in such a state and Prowl finally speaks first.

"Where have you been?" the tactician asks stoically and Hot Rod stops abruptly in front of the two older mechs, fixing them with a glare, his balance wobbling just a little.

"I was out," he says, his vocals slurred and his too bright optics shuttering at different times, "Is that okay with you… mother?" His squinting gaze levels at Prowl and he vaguely tries to block out some of the bright lights in the hall with a raised servo. Optimus narrows his optics at the mech's words as he is nearing the end of the line in his patience for Hot Rod's recent behavior. "I need recharge," Hot Rod is muttering as he tries to move past his bigger brother. The Prime purposefully steps in the younger mech's path and Hot Rod growls lowly as he wobbles to a stop, "Get out of my way." The mech's words aren't accompanied by any form of physical hostility, but his servo is twitching like he wants to shove Optimus out of his path.

Optimus presses his lip plates together in the only outward sign of his anger and Hot Rod smirks at him before turning to look at Prowl.

"Right, I forgot, brig time," he rolls his optics and Prowl purposefully jerks his helm in the direction of the holding cells. "You know what, Prowl?! See if I give a slag if you throw me into the brig!" Hot Rod snarls suddenly in a flare of anger, "I'm just going to do my time, get out, and do it again." His servos flail wildly and Prowl's usually emotionless faceplates scrunch in annoyance as he glances at the Prime. Optimus says nothing to reprimand the disrespectful mech, obviously it would do no good because Hot Rod probably wouldn't even remember it. The mech is clearly overcharged, as seen by his slurred speech and stumbling about, so there is no way in the pit he is going to amount to anything until he recharges it off. Optimus is temporarily tempted to make the mech go about his usual duties with his mild injuries and splitting processor ache, but he would do more harm than good. The Prime fights back a vent of frustration as he gives Prowl permission to escort the mech to his usual brig cell.

"What the slag are you glitch-heads looking at?!" Hot Rod snarls at the guards on duty at the western entrance who have been watching the whole scene with wide optics. The mechs flinch slightly at the younger mech's tone and look away. Hot Rod staggers slightly as he tries to walk down the corridor and Prowl instinctively places a servo on the larger mech's back to steady him. Hot Rod whirls around and swats the H.T.'s servo away with a snarl. "Don't touch me!" he spits out and promptly falls to his aft. Hot Rod hisses angrily at his clumsiness and rolls to his servos and knee plates. He stays there for several astro-seconds_ (1/2 an earth second)_ to calm his churning tanks before he slowly gets back to his pedes. He takes a shaky step and nearly falls onto his faceplates. This time Prowl takes a steel hold of the mech's right shoulder and wrist to steady him and make him go in the correct direction. At the contact Hot Rod's whole frame goes rigid and his captured arm spasms like he's restraining himself from attempting to throw Prowl off.

Prowl's Enforcer coding prompts him into defense and his frame tenses in case Hot Rod acts rashly. There is a loathsome moment where the two mechs glare at one another before Hot Rod huff in annoyance and acceptance of his fate and allows Prowl to lead him toward the brig. Just as the duo pass Optimus and Elita's private quarters the door slides open revealing the pink commander and Prowl snuffs the illogical urge to sarcastically compliment her on her impeccable timing.

Elita's vents hitch as she takes in the sight of the mech in front of her and Hot Rod groans out loud as they near, "Primus! I'm not in the mood for one of your useless pep talks, ok, Elita?"

Prowl shoves the mech forward roughly as he sees the displeased and slightly hurt optics of the commander, "Show some respect for your superiors, mechlet!" the former enforcer growls. Hot Rod jerks his shoulder to dislodge Prowl's servo from his shoulder with a rumble echoing from his own engine, but the tactician only hardens his grip. "Move it!" the smaller mech commands the offender.

"I'm going, Prowl!" Hot Rod snaps as he continues to stumble down the hall. Prowl spares one glance back at Elita who is staring after Hot Rod in morose disapproval. She had always tried to tell them the mech had a problem, and only recently has Prowl himself started to agree with her. At first he had dismissed her insistings as those of an out of balance fembot, but it has become very evident to him, pit to everybody but Optimus and Ultra Magnus, who still clings to the hope that he is fine, that something is eating away at Hot Rod.

* * *

Ironhide makes his way back to the bridging hanger, still exhausted from the previous cycle spent sparring with the femme twins. He had returned for a report on how things were going at the Wreckers' outpost and had been conned into a match with the two terrors, something he hadn't done since he had evaluate them a few deca cycles _(months)_ ago. His left leg hitch a bit in stiffness and he huffs under his breath, they hadn't passed his test in flying colors out of luck. He is going to be feeling that match for cycles_ (days)_.

Ironhide's optics wander up the hall way and his step falters again as he catches sight of a certain light blue femme. She spots him at the same time and stops in her tracks.

"What are you doing back?" Chromia asks more civilly than she had ever been to him before as he nears her location.

"Reports," he says, stopping in front of her.

"I figured the Wreckers would have sent you back on a stretcher by now," she says in teasing seriousness. The black mech tries to school his features to stoicism, but the corner of his lip components goes rogue and a tiny smirk tics into place. Finally the mech frags it and gives the femme a genuine smile. When the femme's optics light up at his grin Ironhide wants to shoot himself for not smiling at her before.

"Nah," he answers her jest lightly, "the slaggers like me too much."

Her optic ridge raises and a smirk of her own graces her features, "I can see why," she says and almost instantly stiffens.

Ironhide can't help his widening grin and it is his turn to raise his optic ridge as his spark flutters at her words. "Really?" he asks, his vocals gruff. He doesn't even try to stop himself from taking a step closer to the fembot, whose cooling fans are subtly running. She clears her throat pipes nervously and the weapon specialist can't help but feel satisfied at her loss of words.

"What I meant was that, um, you probably fit in very well with them," she manages with minimal stuttering. The mech can tell she is furious at the flustered feelings that she is so obviously feeling, but he has to hand it to her, it was a fairly smooth save on her part.

"Nice recovery, femme," he says appreciatively.

"Thank you, mech," Chromia replies with her lip plates stretching into a soft smile and their gaze meets again, unwavering. Ironhide doesn't know how long they stay like this, but he can't help the small growl of irritation when a set of too-shrill vocals calls out to him excitedly.

"When did you get back, Hide?" Star asks as she bounces up to him, flashing her perfect, shining denta.

"Yester-cycle," he answers as civilly as possible without snapping at the fembot while his optics never leave the light blue femme in front of him. Chromia had broken off their gaze the instant Star had begun speaking, but the weapon specialist watches her for as long as he can, he doesn't know when he will be able see her again. He sees the fembot clench her jaw in irritation and fist her servos as Star is yapping unintelligibly in the background. She is rather adorable when she is agitated, Ironhide acknowledges as she lifts her hardened optics back to him.

"Goodbye, Ironhide," Chromia says with stiff politeness, "have a safe trip."

Ironhide cloaks his smile and resists the urge to remind her he will be traveling back to the Wreckers via ground bridge, you really can't get any safer than that, but he holds his glossa and watches her walk away from him, wondering what the pit just happened.

"You're leaving?" Star asks in her high octave with sad optics. The weapons specialist merely nods and turns to continue his previous journey to the bridging tech stationed in the tactical office. He would like to see how Bumblebee is getting along before he leaves and he is pretty sure he will find him with Prowl. "May I walk with you?" Star asks pleadingly and Ironhide grunts in agreement. The femme quickly falls into stride taking two steps for Ironhide's one, beaming up at him all the while as she clears her vocals shyly. They walk the rest of the way with Star asking him questions about his post and Ironhide giving blunt answers with a yes, no, or a completely vague reply.

The pair comes to a stop in front of the tactical office and Ironhide finally turns to look at the fembot. She quickly gets the message that this is as far as she will be going and she visibly deflates.

"I've missed you," Star says softly as she places a servo on his cheek plating and swiftly lands a chaste kiss on it. Ironhide forces himself not to recoil... it didn't feel right at all. As she draws back she lets her servo fall from his faceplates and whispers, "Don't wait so long to come see and me again." With that she walks away with an all too feminine sway and the black mech scowls as he enters the Tactical Office. Femmes are so slagging confusing.

Ironhide punches in his access code and strides into the room and almost immediately spots Bumblebee sitting on Prowl's desk watching him work. The black mech smiles at the little yellow mechlet as he walks through the open door of the H.T.'s office.

"Hey, squirt," Ironhide says, not even trying to stop the smile that pulls at his faceplates when Bumblebee's helm snaps up at his vocals and his optics light up. The youngling grins and he leaps up from his sitting perch, sliding rather smoothly down one of the desk's legs. As soon as the little sparkling's pedes hit the ground he runs for the black mech.

"Hide!" Bumblebee cries excitedly as he comes to a stop at the large mech's pedes. He raises his arms wildly in his inflated mood to indicate he wanted Ironhide to pick him up. The weapons specialist hates to disappoint the little twerp, so he swiftly swoops the yellow mechling up into his arms and begins to tickle him mercilessly. Bumblebee squawks as he tries in vain to shove Ironhide's large servos away.

"Say give," Ironhide says teasingly giving the sparkling a way out. Bumblebee shakes his helm 'no' vehemently as giggles tear through his vocalizer. "Say give," the black mech says a little louder.

"No!" Bumblebee yells stubbornly as his legs kick in glee. The weapons specialist quickly goes for all the sparkling's most ticklish wires, encouraged by his shrieks.

"Ironhide," Prowl's slightly irate tone sounds over the duo's play and the black mech looks up at the H.T., "if he lubricates all over the place, you will be cleaning it up." This immediately quells Ironhide's tickling rampage and Bumblebee uses the break to catch his vents and tries desperately to get back to the floor to escape the tickling torture. The weapons specialist quickly readjusts his grip and brings the sparkling to optic level, Bumblebee's escape attempts halt and he stares wide opticked at Ironhide.

"Are you being a good mechlet for Prowl?" Ironhide asks in all seriousness. Bumblebee nods in equal seriousness and Prowl pauses his work to look up at the pair with a raised optic ridge. "Do I need to ask Prowl?" Ironhide asks with his vocals low in mock gruffness and Bumblebee shakes his helm with a grin appearing mischievously. "Ha, that's what I thought, you little trouble-maker!" Ironhide says chuckling and he approaches the black and white mech's desk to gently disperse the mechlet onto it. "Has Ratchet come to any conclusions on his spark and psychological growth rate?" the weapons specialist asks, talking to Prowl now. The H.T. shakes his helm as he sits back into his chair, temporarily abandoning his work to speak to Ironhide. "Have you come up with anything?"

"Everything that I have thought of doesn't seem logical, let alone possible," Prowl pauses for a moment before he adds, "I've considered though that it may simply be because he has no one his age to play with and has only ever been around fully upgraded bots." Ironhide grunts in agreement as he looks down at Bumblebee, who is now playing with a deactivated blaster.

"You need to talk to Ratchet about installing one," Ironhide says gesturing to the mechlet and the blaster he is holding. Prowl gives Ironhide a rare, amused smile at the thought of giving Bumblebee a blaster.

"Bumblebee's spark may be incredibly strong for his age, but by my calculations he would barely be able to shoot five shots without exhausting himself," Prowl says as he scans the main tactical office to check the position and status of his officers.

"So you've already considered it?"

"I have."

"Well, he needs something," Ironhide grumbles ill-temperedly at the H.T., "he's living on a military base for Primus' sake!"

As much as the weapons specialist thought that allowing Prowl to take over the care of Bumblebee was a good idea, he couldn't help but worry constantly about the mechlet. Prowl is giving Ironhide a calculating stare before he finally nods his helm, "I will talk to Ratchet about installing some miniaturized stingers," Prowl replies steadily not bothered by the mech's rough tone he had taken. Ironhide tries not to smirk at the irony of the mechlet's organic name and Prowl gives him a highly unimpressed look when he fails at restraining a smile for the umpteenth time this cycle_ (day)_.

"P'ow'," Bumblebee calls to his caretaker as he lays down the blaster, the mech immediately halts his conversation with Ironhide and looks down at Bumblebee expectantly. Ironhide notices how Prowl's faceplates soften ever so slightly as he diverts his attention to the mechlet and the weapons specialist can't help but think the H.T. is one big pushover when it came to Bumblebee. Pit, who wasn't? The mechling can't quite think of the words he wants so he gestures to his tanks.

"Are you hungry?" Prowl asks, although he already knew the answer and Bumblebee nods expectantly. "Ok, in a klik_ (1.2 earth seconds)_, Bee," Prowl promises. Ironhide takes notice that the tactician had shortened Bumblebee's designation; he can't ever remember Prowl doing that. Maybe Bee is exactly what Prowl needs to loosen his tight aft, Ironhide nearly smirks at the thought, but somehow manages to catch the facial twitch and kill it before it makes an appearance.

Bumblebee's mouthplates sag downward at his caretaker's reply and he crosses his arms in a dopey sparkling way before his vocalizer emits a sad, "Uuuhhh."

Prowl ignores the mechling's sad display as he again turns to Ironhide and asks, "Are you ready to be bridged back?" Ironhide nods as an answer and Prowl offlines the data pads that are scattered across his desk before he rises from his chair, picking up the sparkling on the way out. Ironhide follows close behind as they exit Prowl's private office, emerging into the main tactical room. "Piston," the H.T. calls to his Second who looks up instantly from his work, "Ironhide needs a bridge back to the Wreckers' outpost, and I am going to go to the rec room, so keep an optic on the loafers." Piston smirks at his boss and nods his helm in indication that he heard the younger mech's request.

Prowl then playfully throws Bumblebee over his shoulder struts. The mechlet squeaks in surprise and begins laughing uncontrollably as he dangles helplessly. Ironhide notices all the tacticians exchanging smirks at their boss and his tiny charge. Bumblebee pushes himself off Prowl's back and cranes his neck to see the bots in the office then he gives them a wave and yells a squeaky 'bye'.

Every mech in the room, including Ironhide, found themselves all calling back to him an almost instantaneous, "Bye, Bee!" just before the doors slide shut, closing the grinning mechlet off from their sight.

"To the Wrecker outpost?" Piston inquires as he types in the coordinates and Ironhide grunts out a yes. As the ground bridge whirs into existence before them Piston turns back to the weapons specialist with an odd look on his faceplates, "You know, you should come by more often," the tactician says without thought. Ironhide looks at him and he squirms, "What I mean is that, you obviously mean a lot to Bee, and you were his caretaker for a long time so-"

Ironhide interrupts the stammering mech, "I'll do that." Without another word he enters the ground bridge and disappears.

A gust of air leaves Piston's vents. For a moment he thought Ironhide might pummel him for being so direct, honestly, he could never tell what that mech was thinking. With his relief still fresh in his wires the tactician turns back to his work. As Prowl ordered he watches the chronic slackers to keep them busy with their work. For a moment it is almost like Piston is Head Tactician again and he doesn't like the feeling. Sure, he is qualified and he did a commendable job when he headed the tactical division of the Autobot ranks, but the pressure that goes with the job he does not miss. To be perfectly honest he was thrilled when Optimus replaced him with Prowl. Prowl is dauntless in the face of the responsibility that weighs down on the shoulders of whomever bares the title of Head Tactician. Prowl is always in control of the situation and never loses his cool when the heat was turned on. His calm, rational reaction to every occasion is something that Piston always envied about the younger mech.

Yes... Piston is insurmountably glad that Prowl is his superior.

A long while later, after catching one mech napping on the job, Prowl returns with the happily smiling Bumblebee perched in the crook of his left arm. The pair quietly enter the tactical office and immediately a more professional air sweeps across the other tacticians. Yet another effect Prowl has.

Piston risks a peek over at the duo and sees that Bumblebee is now on the floor. Prowl's 'someone-is-not-working' sense kicks in and the H.T. looks up quickly to see Piston staring at him and the mechlet. One disapproving look later and Piston is back to work, studying the recent patterns of the Decepticons to the north.

He then runs calculations until his processor hurts. Nothing unusual shows up and no pattern is detected. The Decepticons are as random as ever. A noise comes from Prowl's desk and Piston risks a glance. He is met by the usual sight of the yellow sparkling playing at the feet of the H.T. while he works. Bumblebee is scribbling with fierce concentration on a large piece of scrap as Prowl works through some statistics and battle strategies. Bumblebee lightly touches his caretaker's leg and the black and white doorwinger looks down at the picture the little bot is drawing. Prowl smiles and takes time to look the picture and ask who he is sketching.

Bumblebee grins and says, "You!" all the while wiggling in barely contained glee at Prowl's praise. Piston watches as the baby bot continues sketching; Prowl's optics stay on the mechlet for a few moments longer then turns back to his work. The tactical Second in Command continues watching the pair interact and only succeeds in causing himself to long for a family. Prowl is a wonderful father figure and Piston hopes one day he will do the job half as well as his superior. The S.I.C. turns back to his calculations before he gets caught staring again with his loneliness suddenly becoming very prominent in his thoughts.

Who exactly he would start a family with? He has no prospects.

"Piston," Prowl's voice cuts into the older mech's musings and Piston sits straighter under the doorwinger's optics as he waits for what Prowl has to say. "I have something that needs to be reported to Optimus Prime," he says, looking slightly apologetic for what both mechs know is coming out of his mouth next, "Could you watch Bumblebee for a moment?" Piston struggles to keep a grimace off his face plates as he glances to where Bumblebee is still drawing so innocently.

"Sure, no problem," Piston answers against his better judgment. He has had many babysitting scares with the little yellow tot. The mechlet has a nasty habit of looking sweet and unassuming until he has you alone and then he'll become a slippery little cretin that loves escaping his babysitters.

"Bumblebee," Prowl calls to the sparkling who looks up quickly, "be good for Piston," Prowl warns. The yellow mechling smiles in compliance and nods enthusiastically. No sooner has the H.T. exited the tactical office with a data pad in servo does Bumblebee abandon his scrap piece and approach the Tactical Second.

"Hey, Bee," Piston greets suspiciously as he eyes the sparkling, who climbs onto his desk with some aid from the mech watching.

"What is you doing?" Bumblebee asks and Piston smiles at his little blunder in his speech.

"What are you doing," the mech corrects before he answers the mechlet's question, "I am going through statistics, I'm trying to detect patterns," Piston says only half truthful. He didn't want to tell Bee he was cross-referencing recent Decepticon movements to try to figure out their next move. He didn't want to try to explain what a Decepticon is or why they are different from everyone else or why they are at war.

"What that?" Bumblebee asks pointing to the screen where the latest group of Vehicons is moving.

Piston's optics narrow at the radar. He wonders briefly how the mechlet was able to pick out the slight blip in the sensor before he answers, "It's a group of bots moving about." He proceeds to go over his calculations again to try to predict the new group of Vehicons' destination and mission. He comes up empty... where is Prowl when you need him? Piston almost growls in frustration as he comms Chromia to report immediately to the tactical office with a team.

"What are they doing?" Bumblebee asks and Piston hardly notices that the mechlet did not repeat his speech mistake.

"I don't know, Bee," the mech says as Chromia enters with four other femmes with her.

"Mia!" Bumblebee yodels excitedly as he quickly climbs down the desk and runs to the light blue femme. Chromia smiles down at the tiny bot and picks him up as soon as he reaches her. Most bots think the little mechlet is far older than his actual age, occasionally even those closest to him forget as well when he displays his incredible aptitude. Then there are those times when he actually acts his age.

"Hey squirt!" Chromia teases, tickling the sparkling's stomach lightly, making him giggle, "Are you behaving?" she asks in playful seriousness and Bumblebee nods still giggling madly.

Piston momentarily forgets the most recent happenings and reverts to his family musings. Maybe he could start one with Chromia. She is good with Bumblebee and she is a very good-looking fembot.

"What have we got?" the light blue femme's rough vocals cut through the mech's ponderings and he can barely keep himself from blushing from embarrassment because of his thoughts.

"A small group of Vehicons on the move," Piston says, trying his best to sound professional and succeeding for the most part.

"Where are they headed and what is their mission?" she asks as she puts the mechlet down on the bridging control desk and begins checking her weapons with the mechling watching in fascination. Piston holds back his request that she not do that in front of Bumblebee seeing as Prowl allows the mechlet to play with offline weapons.

"I don't know, I've cross-referenced all the known recent missions and sightings and I've got nothing," Piston says, shaking his helm.

"Where's Prowl?" Chromia asks as she does a comm check with her team that consists of her sister, Arcee, a tough as nails fembot, Rammer, and the split spark twins.

"He's with the Prime," Piston says, looking up from the main computer, "It's a group of seven."

Chromia smirks. "We'll follow them," the fembot says as she nods to the bridge, "and if it's nothing we'll take care of them. Put us through." Piston moves to the bridge controls and opens the portal as the femme requested.

"Comm when you're ready to return," Piston says out of protocol as the femmes do last moment checks on their weapons.

"Bye!" Bumblebee calls from his place next to Piston, waving wildly. All the fembots smile at the mechling before they transform and drive through the blue-green gateway.

"How do you always get the femmes to smile at you, Bee?" Piston asks turning to the sparkling as he deactivates the bridge causing the portal to collapse. Bumblebee shrugs innocently and grins up at his babysitter in a spark melting way. "Ok, I get it, I get it," Piston says, his voice high pitched as he teases the little bot, "I'll just do my work since I can't compete."

Piston jokingly huffs back to his desk leaving Bumblebee giggling on the bridging control desk. He shoots a playful glare back at the baby bot and Bumblebee giggles even harder. With a grin Piston turns back to his configurations with something like dread. There is only so much you can do of nothing, and that is what his work is amounting to now.

* * *

Bee watches Pis'on restart his work and starts playing with the digits on his servos fascinated with the way they move. The yellow sparkling quickly grows board and lays back on his high position surveying the room for a fun escape plan. His optics land on the control panels right next to him. He just saw Pis'on click some of these buttons and Mia and her friends went into the glowing blob and disappeared, but where to? Bee strokes his chin thoughtfully with a small servo as he often seen P'ow do before he crawls up to the buttons. He tries in vain to push one with his servos then quickly switches to jumping on them when the first approach fails.

He clicks another then another and another. The sparkling pauses momentarily to stroke his chin again almost giggling in delight. He jumps on two more control buttons and reaches for the lever that he saw Pis'on use to activate the blue blob. Bee grabs the handle with both of his tiny servos and strains to pull it back. It doesn't budge and Bee huffs in annoyance. He glances at Pis'on to make sure the mech is unaware to what he is doing. Bee giggles slightly, this is going to be his best escape yet! The sparkling braces his little pedes against the lever's base and strains back on it, pulling with all the strength in his tiny frame.

It gives a little and this causes the baby bot to chirp in delight before he tries again with more vigor. When he gets the lever halfway across he runs to the other side of it and begins pushing with all his might. Bee stops what he is doing as Pis'on gets up from his desk and absent mindedly tells the sparkling to behave. Bee watches Pis'on walk into a smaller hanger of the tactical office that has a glass window between the two and the sparkling waits until the mech turns his back before he pushes the handle all the way down.

The sudden movement of the lever giving in to the sparkling's slight frame weight sends Bee tumbling to the ground but he doesn't cry. He sits up wide opticked as he watches the blue blob appear in front of him. Yes! He did it! He leaps to his pedes and runs into the blob as fast as his tiny legs can carry him. Mia will be so happy to see him!

* * *

Prowl exits the Prime's office in what was a highly unsuccessful meeting. Megatron and Galvatron are being so quiet lately, the only sightings of Cons being Vehicons or Insecticons. The last few deca cycles_ (months)_ have been extremely random as if the two warlords no longer had any sort of plan, but Prowl knew most likely they were just trying to throw everyone off to exactly what the plan is. They've tried that strategy before... and Megatron always has a plan. Now Prowl just has to find out what.

He pulls his thoughts off of the war and checks his chronometer. The meeting didn't take near as long as he thought it was going to so now he has time to grab Bumblebee and spend time with him with no work to distract him.

Prowl was rather surprised at how easy it was to take on the role of Bumblebee's caretaker. The mechlet has definitely helped to ease some of the guilt he still carries about Firefly and Prowl now is infinitely happy he had that talk with Jazz almost a vorn_ (83 earth yrs.)_ and a half ago.

Prowl enters the tactical office just in time to see a yellow streak fly into an activated portal before it collapses forcefully.

Prowl's spark stalls. His jaw hinge loosens and he stares at the spot where the portal just was in lack of understanding. His logical core stutters... portals weren't suppose to collapse by themselves. He feels his optics enlarge to twice their normal size as what he just saw run _into_ the ground bridge sinks deeper into his processor and finally registers; all this taking less than two nano-kliks_ (seconds)_.

Bumblebee…

Prowl surges into action! He reaches the ground bridge controls in three huge steps and quickly accesses the last used coordinates with his finger digits flying across the keys. What he sees nearly makes him drop to the ground in sheer horror.

There on the screen is the exact coordinates where the mechling went… Prowl's gears churn and his spark leaps up into his throat. How!?

"Bumblebee…" Prowl breaths out with his chassis and throat pipes tightening in fear. His emotional core surges forward, crowding out any possible logic in the tactician's processor and he slams the bridging lever down, activating the portal for the last entered coordinates. The bridge surges to life and Prowl races toward it with his spark pounding in his helm. As he runs, he squalls a terrified, squeaky-sounding order over his shoulder armor, "Piston! Whenever I comm, bridge me back!"

As he darts into the blue, green, and white whirlpool of color he subspaces his arm cannon. The sound of the metal churning into place sets an even higher form of fear in his gears.

The end of the portal is upon him in an instant and he no longer has time to dwell on the panic that is rooting in his chest. He springs from the bridge just as it snaps back close and rolls out of his lunge, bringing his cannon up as he stops on one knee plate. There is no one. There is nothing but darkness.

Prowl scans space around him again without moving a single wire, and, once more, he finds no life forms present. He eases to his pedes with his weapon still up to bear and activates his headlights. The white lights illuminates a room, showing large crates stacked high in every corner… A storage room.

Thank Primus.

A miniscule tendril of relief enters the doorwinger for an astro-second_ (1/2 an earth second)_ that Bumblebee didn't bridge himself somewhere where he would be offlined the moment he toddled through and that same relief is squandered instantly as Prowl realizes that, according to his energy readers, the meching isn't in storage room anymore.

Oh, Primus.

Prowl quickly moves forward toward the storage room exit and, much to his irritation, it is locked. He checks the perimeter of the room for any other ways out and finds, much to his despair, an airway vent that is ground level. The bars have been removed and cast aside in a sparkling-like carelessness, revealing what Bumblebee had done upon arrival.

Prowl curses under his vents as he realizes that he will never in a million vorns be able to fit through the air duct. Who knows where the mechling is by now! This vent could be connected to a hundred other apertures that could lead to a thousand different places! The H.T. backs away from the vent and goes back to the door exit with his fans blasting in growing hysteria.

He bends over the lock and works on hacking the code. He's done it before… Jazz showed him how…

"—can't believe I've got to do everything by myself!" a set of vocals on the other side of the exit gripes a nano-klik before the door slams open and Prowl is momentarily blinded by the light that floods into the room. His vent hitches, he pulls back in surprise and stares at the red opticked mech who is looking at him with the same amount of shock on his faceplates.

* * *

Piston heard Prowl when he walked back into the tactical office and has to bite back a smile when he hears the composed doorwinger clear the floor in three giant leaps. And here the mech continues to insist on acting as if being away from Bumblebee doesn't affect him. If he goes running that fast to see him after being gone for just a couple of breems_ (8.3 earth min.)_ then—

"Piston! Whenever I comm, bridge me back!" Prowl barks with his vocals intimidatingly forceful.

Piston wheels just in time to see the doorwinger go charging through an open ground bridge with his cannon priming up as he runs. Confusion fills the older tactician as he watches the portal stay steady for a short time and then jerk back closed with an odd finality about it.

That was strange. Portals don't collapse by themselves unless there was a severe strain upon them, like a strong security defense that was breached or a long distance transportation that ground bridges aren't meant for… that would force a bridge back closed. Curiosity prompts Piston to wander over to the bridging controls with his faceplates pulling into a perplexed frown as he stops in front of the huge computer. Where did Prowl put Bumblebee? Piston's optic ridge twitches downward as he checks the room. No sparkling.

The older tactician peers down at the locked coordinates that Prowl just bridged himself to in interest. Funny, that site would put the H.T. directly in…

Piston's spark pulse slows and he stays locked in place with his processor whirling for a mere astro-second_ (1/2 an earth second)_, then carefully sends a private communication link request to Optimus Prime.

: Yes, Piston? :

: Prime, you might want to get down here. :

: What is happening? Did you discover a Decepticon conspiracy? :

: No, nothing like that, : Piston replies with his optics still disbelievingly staring down at the location that is blinking its coordinates back at him cheerily, : It's just that… Prime… Prowl just bridged himself to Kaon. :

* * *

_Don't hurt me for the cliff hanger! I know every reader secretly loves them... (or at least love/hates them)_

_As everyone knows, school time has arrived so I know not when I will be able to update again (I just rhymed, tehehe) So have patience with with me please. I will try to write more, but I can make no promises._

_I would love to hear your thoughts! Reviews make happiness!_


	17. Chapter 16

_Here you are! After a long horrible wait of a cliffhanger. I will keep the chitchat up here to a minimum. Onward to the tale of In A Rising Darkness! Charge my little minions! Charge! (it's late... I need sleep.)_

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

* * *

Small. Compact. More than likely grounder. Medic type armor. Prowl's processor spits out the information in rapid succession as the Decepticon in front of him blinks in complete and utter astonishment.

"What the-"

Prowl punches him in the face.

The cherry red mech staggers backwards with a howl and Prowl snags him by shoulder armor, pulling him back into the storage room. Accessing his Enforcer coding, Prowl slams the small grounder into the wall next to the exit with the mech still squalling.

Elbow to the faceplates. Two sharp strikes to the abdomen. Knee to the helm. The grounder is sagging in unconsciousness in less than four nano-kliks_ (seconds)_. The door-winger quickly and efficiently deactivates the medic's communication systems just as Jazz showed him how. Prowl slips his servos under the red mech's arms and lowers him easily to the ground so as to not make any noise and slips out of the door just astro-seconds_ (1/2 sec.)_ before it slams back close, relocking itself. The H.T. didn't want to leave the medic online, but he had no choice, spilled energon would practically scream trouble on routine energy scans.

_Like two foreign spark signatures won't_, Prowl's logic-less, frazzled processing snaps back at him, inappropriately resorting to sarcasm.

The H.T. activates his spark energy dampener so that no one he happens to pass will see his signature on their scanner unless they are purposely searching for him. Prowl freezes in the hall to scan his surroundings. No energy signals are approaching from what he can tell by extending his readers as far as he dares with Soundwave haunting the area. Nothing. No Bumblebee.

No! Prowl bites back the urge to scream obscenities, he didn't need his logical core to tell him how stupid that would be. The door-winger vents harshly before he spreads his readers a little further than he was comfortable with. Still nothing. Where did the sparkling go to so quickly? Prowl will not leave without him!

There! A tiny blip shows up on his scanner. The readings of a significantly small spark... a sparkling.

Prowl moves stealthily toward the sparkling. Skillfully picking up the heat signatures of the corridor cameras, he successfully weaves through their blind spots, another skill taught to him by his ex-thief, best friend. Prowl nearly snorts... when his logic core comes back online it's probably going to fritz from the fact that he actually used the skills Jazz had so thoroughly taught him through his boring recovery period when the silver mech had nothing else to do.

Prowl ducks out of sight as a group of vehicons trudges past, talking obnoxiously among themselves.

"I'm telling you, you're making a huge mistake betting against them," one in the group says loudly to his companions.

"I am not," another voice defends his choice ardently.

"Hey, this isn't me talking! It's fact! There's a reason they've been Megatron's champions for almost two vorns _(1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_!" Prowl listens to them continue arguing as they disappear, he doesn't dare move from his spot until he can no longer hear them.

He vents softly in relief and emerges from the slight corner that barely kept him hidden. He dodges two more groups of vehicons as he ventures further and further out of the storage units of Kaon... this is ridiculous. He and a mere sparkling should not be in the most fortified Decepticon base on Cybertron!

Prowl comes to a stop in front of the door that the sparkling's spark signature is coming from; much to Prowl's dismay there are seven other signals inside the room as well. Upon closer inspection the H.T. sees it is the Decepticon tactical office. Bumblebee must have reached Kaon, started exploring his new enviorment, grown frightened, and when to look for his guardian, Prowl, in the only place that makes sense to the mechlet.

Without any form of hesitation the door-winger crouches by the door code panel and swiftly overrides the access code. The entrance slides open and Prowl walks through it as if he belongs. None of the bots inside see fit to look up from their work to scrutinize the newest addition to their numbers. So they are expecting someone. He must work fast then.

The former enforcer activates the stun shot on his subspace cannons and speedily clears the room. Three tacticians take the 20 thousand watt shock in the back, frying every circuit in their frame before they even hit the ground. One mech gets it in the aft for Prowl's own logic-less amusement. The other three turn in confusion toward the sounds of cut off cries and crackling electricity and before they can even register the sight of the Autobot, they also take shocks to the shoulder, chest, and neck.

That probably was not the best idea, Prowl realizes a little too late. The use of his high voltage stun drained his energy. He quickly calculates that he has enough energy for precisely fifteen more shots before he has to resort to close range weapons. Slag him and his inability to think further ahead in these situations!

He barely gives himself an astro-second_ (1/2 sec.)_ to even his ragged venting. He needs to find Bumblebee and escape quickly before whomever the now thoroughly fried bots where expecting shows up.

"Bumblebee?" Prowl calls out softly, "it is okay. It is me, Prowl." He focuses on the spot the energy signature is coming from and gives the dark area that conceals the mechling a encouraging smile. Instantly the sparking peeks from the desk he is hiding under with his baby blue optics lighting up at the sight of his caretaker. He scuttles readily from behind the desk and runs to Prowl's waiting arms. The door-winger scoops him up and immediately begins running scans on the mechling for injuries. Nothing. Prowl's optics burn weirdly as a feeling that he could only name as relief wells in his mainframe.

Bumblebee lightly touches the mech's cheek plating causing him look at his son.

"Bee scares P'ow?" Bumblebee asks, his optic ridge furrowing as he looks up questioningly into the black and white door-winger's optics.

"Yes," Prowl replies while trying his best to keep his vocals breaking from temporary relief that he found the baby bot unharmed, "Yes, you did, Bee."

"Bee sowrry," Bumblebee says with a hiccup as large tears form in his optics.

"Hey," Prowl says trying to soothe the slowly starting sobs from Bumblebee from coming into existence, "It is okay. Prowl found you. We just got to get back home, okay?"

"Bee want go home."

"Alright, we will, but you have to do something for me, can you do something for me, Bee?" Prowl asks to keep the tears building in his son's optics from falling. Bee nods mutely. "Prowl needs you to be very quiet. Do you think you can do that?" Bee nods again with his tears slowly disappearing. Prowl gives the mechlet a reassuring grin and carries the mechling to the vent that Bumblebee had used to enter the room. "Do you remember how Ratchet taught you to activate your energy dampener?" Prowl asks, another nod. "Can you activate it?"

"Uh-huh, see?"

The H.T. watches his scanner until the sparkling's signature disappears completely and then smiles broadly at his son in praise, prompting a huge grin from the mechlet in return.

"Good job, now I need you to go back to the exact room that you came through the ground bridge at, okay?"

"Da bwob?"

Prowl blinks for a moment before nodding, "Yes, the blob. I need you to go back to that exact room. But do not enter it until you hear my voice because there is a bad mech sleeping in there." Bumblebee nods once more as Prowl places him back into the tiny vent and the small yellow bot scampers away with uncanny stealth. The door-winger pushes away the uneasy feeling as he watches his son disappear into the darkness of the air duct. This is the best way... now if Prowl has to fight his way out Bumblebee won't be harmed in the crossfire.

Prowl carefully places the panel back in place so as not to arouse suspicion. He moves quickly to the door only to pause hesitantly in front of the large main computer of the tactical office. A risky but somewhat logical plan enters his processor. He rapidly calculates.

The Autobots need intelligence. Their last few espionage mission had been hopelessly fruitless in terms of baring any useful intel and now... it is directly in front of him. He will not be able to download it all because the instant he begins Soundwave will become aware of his presence. He approximates that he can allow himself twenty-five nano-kliks_ (seconds)_ to download the most recently accessed data before he needs to leave to maintain a comfortable distance between himself and Soundwave of four nano-kliks _(seconds)_.

Prowl accesses the data and begins the download on his subspace hardrive and starts the countdown. Red lights instantly begin flashing wildly through the tactical office and a loud alarm blares in his audios. Prowl hopes it doesn't scare Bee too badly. 25...24...23...22…21…

The tactical door suddenly opens and Prowl lunges over the nearest desk, skidding across the top on his abdomen, and flopping gracelessly behind it on the other side. Medium weight pede falls sound closer and stop just inside the room. The unknown, new arrival's jaw drop is audible as he takes in the sight of the riotous disarray of the tactical office.

"What the pit?!" a painfully familiar voice sounds from the mech and Prowl's spark clenches. He knows that voice! 20…19…18…17…

Prowl tries to even his venting ,but his emotions spike as he recognizes the energy signature as well. Barricade. His brother. Oh Primus, why? Memories bombard him swiftly leaving him almost weak with grief. Why? Why did his brother try to kill him all those vorns_ (83 earth yrs.)_ ago? Prowl loved him! Still loves him! 16…15…14…13…

Prowl shakes his processor clear. He hasn't seen Barricade since that day and he knew that when he finally did it was going to be hard. He just hadn't expected this much... this much pain. 12…11…10…

He must get a grip! For his son! If he doesn't they will both deactivate and very soon.

Prowl takes a deep vent and leaps from his hiding place attacking his unsuspecting brother! He slams his open servo into Barricade's chest causing his vents to painfully constrict. Another open servo connects with the mech's lower abdomen and Barricade hunches over gasping in pain and swinging blindly at his assailant. 9…8…7…

Prowl dodges all the smaller mech's wild fists calmly and effectively. 6…5…4…

The door-winger sends an elbow strut to his brother's faceplates and, as Barricade stumbles backwards, he kicks the mech's unstable right leg at the knee joint. The forceful and brutal hit makes the knee piston buckle, causing Barricade to reel sideways toward Prowl, who grabs his back armor and hurtles the Decepticon to the ground, unconscious. 3…2…1…

The H.T. sprints to the main computer and jerks his hard drive from the access port as he sweeps past it. The mech doesn't even pause to try and open the door, instead he barges through it bellowing like a mad idibot. The flashing lights in the corridor is dizzying and makes Prowl's helm swim with lightness as he transforms and peels out, burning rubber and fishtailing. The mech's scanners warn him of two groups of Decepticons, one coming from before and one from behind him, sandwiching him between them.

Prowl curses under his vent, switching swiftly back to his bipedal mode with a roll, he ejects both his subspace swords. Two Decepticon from the group ahead of him move in at him from both sides. As Prowl regains his pedes, he slashes upward with his blades, severing half of their upper frames from the lower, slicing through their spark chambers. Prowl is already stabbing both blades into the next closest Vehicon's chassis as the last two fall. Shucking the deactivating mech off, he dispatches the next two mechs just as swiftly.

The group from behind is almost upon him now and Prowl growls in frustration that he didn't carry any other weapons with him besides his subspace blades and blasters when he works at Iacon. He wouldn't be so badly off right now if he did. Why doesn't he go armed to the denta like Ironhide?

The next group of enemies round the farthest corner and Prowl switches his right blade to a plasma cannon. Keeping the fact that he has only fifteen shots left before his energy levels get too low, Prowl waits until the group of four charges in their usual, unorderly fashion before firing when they are nearly completely aligned. He offlines all four mechs in the group with one shot each, all of them taking the blast in the vicinity of the neck, almost severing their helms from their necks. Orange sparks starkly contrast against the glowing, blue energon spurting out of their mortal wounds.

Eleven shots left.

Prowl turns again and sprints down the hall not even bothering to transform back into car mode because with all of the delays he is encountering, Soundwave is barely two nano-kliks_ (seconds)_ behind him. He doesn't want to be slowed down for even an astro-second_ (second)_ when the mech actually does catch up. Prowl doesn't want to even think on the slim chances of him actually walking away from a fight with the Communications Officer, but the numbers are staring him straight in the faceplates.

The black and white mech picks up speed as he hears two more mechs approaching again from the front. He quickly calculates the volume and length of time between each of their running pede falls the distance and velocity that they are approaching the corner with and adjusts his speed to meet them directly at the turn.

Prowl lunges onto the farthest wall of the hallway just as a volley of shots rain where he used to be. His pedes touch the grey steel of Kaon's walls and he shoves off, diving straight for the first Vehicon with his left sword pointed at the con's spark chamber. The sharp blade cuts into the mech's armor like it is made of organic material. Prowl tucks his wings safely to his back as he lets his momentum carry him into a roll, dragging the limp, offlined Vehicon with him. As he regains his pedes, he uses the deactivated mech's frame as a shield against the hail of cannon fire from the Decepticon's companion.

The cannon fire hesitates minutely, but that is all Prowl needs and he fires beneath his shield's arm, offlining his enemy with one helm shot.

Ten shots left. Zero time left separating him and Soundwave...

Prowl primes his cannons as he spins to face the black and purple Communications Officer! His spark pounds in his audios as he sees nothing of his foe. He is facing an empty hallway. Prowl's armor flares defensively as he cross examines the hall once more, his optics search his surroundings for several more long nano-kliks _(seconds)_ before he slowly stands erect. This is not right... He swiftly runs over the statistics again with the same result... Everything adds up! Soundwave should be here!

Checking his energy readers, Prowl spots no incoming signals of Decepticons around him either. An uneasy feeling grows in his gears as he starts moving forward again, he should be getting his aft handed to him right now by Soundwave and yet the mech is nowhere to be seen. Prowl frowns and checks his readers again. Still nothing.

As he moves silently down the hall covering both his front and back, Prowl decides to never take Jazz's company for granted on missions again. He could sure use the mech right now. Prowl pushes the illogical wish out of his processor as he catches a lone enemy signal approaching him from the direction he is heading. Well... isn't that curious? Prowl stops in the hall and waits for a moment, analyzing the exact nature of this new arrival and waiting for the Decepticon to come to him.

There is still one question running through his processor again and again; where is Soundwave? Prowl has many of conclusions forming but the most probable one he doesn't even want to think of.

With each resonating pede step that brings his enemy closer, Prowl's spark sinks in an unexplainable, impending sense of doom. A large shadow of the Decepticon flashes momentarily on the wall with the blinding, red lights and the H.T.'s breath stalls. Tall, slightly hunchbacked, thin limbs, a sharp helm; Prowl would have recognized the mech on those hints alone, but the one feature that completely gave away the mech's identity was the two tentacles snaking above his bleak helm.

Well... he has his answer as to the whereabouts of Soundwave. How did he get in front of him?... and why?

Another flash of the base lights and the door-winger catches a glimpse of something abnormal swinging from the left tentacle. Prowl's spark nearly stops as he matches the shape of the shadow to none other than his young son.

* * *

"What do you mean Prowl is in Kaon?!" Jazz yells at Piston, storming back and forth in frustration and running his clawed servo over his helm for the hundredth time or so (if Prowl would've been here he would be able to give him an exact number). His denta bare and a low growl rumbles from his chassis as he continues stomping in circles, "How in the name of... what the pit was he... once I get ahold of that fragger... dumbest thing I've ever heard of..." Piston scrunches his optic ridge together against the sporadic muttering as he watches the saboteur pace with worry for his friend. "No! You know what, Piston?! I don't even care! Send me in!" Jazz shouts, subspacing his blaster and waving the weapon wildly.

Ultra Magnus, Elita1, Ratchet and Optimus Prime all watch as the usually calm mech completely loose his cool and threateningly march at Piston when the tactician begins denying him his wishes.

"Jazz," Optimus says, silencing whatever words were forming on the small bot's lip components effectively.

Jazz turns to some small equipment and kicks it over with a savage yell of frustration. Piston winces in the corner as the equipment slams into the ground and pieces break off of it as it crashes at his pedes. Jazz kicks it again for good measure with an angry curse choking out of his vocalizer, "He is my friend, Optimus Prime, you can't just ask me to sit by and let the Cons tear him apart!" His servos clench as Optimus says nothing, answering him with the silence. Jazz's helm drops, his gaze points down with a softly muttered, "Frag it all."

"Jazz," Ultra Magnus warns as a lilting, half-crazed laugh travels from the small saboteur.

"Of course you don't understand," Jazz growls with his wickedly curved claws flashing in a disgusted gesture at his superior.

"Jazz," Elita reprimands softly from where she stands next to her sparkmate.

The saboteur's vents deflate and his shoulders sag. His visored optics turn to Optimus and he makes one last appeal, "Prime, you've gotta let me try. Please, he's... he's all I got."

"I am sorry Jazz. I cannot allow you to go in simply because I cannot lose two of my best officers at once," a disbelieving scoff comes from the silver mech as Optimus continues, "Prowl's fate is in his own servos. We can only hope for the best, and pray that he either escapes, or is offlined quickly and mercifully."

Jazz turns away angrily and a sense of helplessness sweeps over Optimus as he watches the ex-thief slam his fisted servo into the top of Piston's desk causing the tactician to jump.

Silence follows the loud slam of the mech's fist on metal and in the stillness Optimus narrows his optics. There had to be some sort of explanation for this. There had to be a reason why Prowl, level-headed, by-the-book Prowl, did something so stupid and reckless.

The Tactical Office's doors open swiftly with a subtle whooshing sound, granting entrance to Ironhide.

The mech had been summoned almost immediately by Red Alert to return to Iacon as soon as the security bot had caught wind of what had happened. Even though Ironhide had just left that morning he had swiftly reported back and was brought back to the Iacon base through the Bridging Hanger's portal because Piston had stated that he would never be able to relocate the tiny, miniscule hole in Soundwave's firewall. It was by sheer chance that Prowl had gotten through.

Ironhide stomps in and almost immediately begins ranting, his vocals rough as he starts checking his weapons, "Of all the idiotic, fragging, slag-filled things I've ever heard of, this tops it all!" His optic make a once over on his cannons before he spins them and turns to Piston, "Alright, send me in," he growls lowly while rolling his shoulders in preparation.

"Ironhide, Piston has confirmed that the only reason Prowl was able to get through was because Soundwave hadn't detected the hole in his security block. Another time putting someone through it might as well lead Soundwave directly to the breach and the both of you would be lost," Optimus says to talk the riled weapons specialist down as he continues to try to process some bit of reasoning for all of this.

"Frag..." Ironhide whispers in helplessness as he realizes that his superior is right. At the sound of Ironhide's resignment, Jazz begins his pacing once more, muttering under his vents as he circles.

"How did he even get past Soundwave's defensive shield?" Ultra Magnus asks, voicing the question that seems to have no answer, "Did he just happen to find it while he was working?..."

"And if he did, then why didn't he report it?" Elita finishes Ultra Magnus' thought. She frowns and looks at the bridging controls harshly as though they might give up some sort of clue as to what happened behind everyone's turned backs. Her frown deepens, "We could have dealt a devastating strike on Kaon with it."

"I just don't understand how he _found _opening in Soundwave's defense." Ultra Magnus says, only rephrasing his previous befuddlement, obviously hoping that someone will have an answer this time that actually makes sense.

Jazz storms back towards them, "I've gotta question of my own! Why in the pit did he go diving helm first into his own tomb after he found it? When you figure it out, let me know!"

Optimus agrees silently. Prowl never does something so rash… ever. He's the most rule-abiding mech that the Prime has ever seen in his onlined cycles_ (days)_. For Prowl to have done something so... insane, something must have driven him over the edge. Something must have shut down every logical thought in his processor for him to have proceeded so thoughtlessly. That is the only explanation that Optimus can form. The only remaining question is simply this: what in the name of Primus was so important that Prowl would charge into the Decepticon's headquarters without any thought to his wellbeing? Naught comes to processor except… Optimus's optics narrow as he realizes that something is missing from this picture. Or rather...

"Wait," says Piston, looking around in confusion and something like raw panic, "Where's Bee?"

...someone.

"No," Optimus whispers as he arrives at the ultimate conclusion.

* * *

The crimson flashing of lights sporadically illuminates the blackened facelessness of one of the most feared Decepticons known. Panic that would have never even dreamt of appearing in the presence of Prowl's logical core floods his systems as Soundwave pauses at the corner of the hall and one of the twin tentacles move forward. Bumblebee swings from its steely grip with his impeccably blue optics wide and wet with frightened tears.

As soon as those terrified optics land on the H.T. Bumblebee's vocalizer releases a sob, "P'ow!"

That cry is the ripping of the last strand of any reason that might have still remained in Prowl. Without any thought for his wellbeing he charges. Instantly Soundwave reacts by catapulting his free tentacle at the black and white door-winger!

Prowl skips to the side just as the appendage's clamping digits dive at his spark chamber. The sound of the metal grappling fingers searing across his shoulder armor grates in his audios! Senselessly, Prowl grabs the tentacle in both servos and is ripped from his position and flung against the base's wall! His door-wings smart at the brutal collision with the unforgiving wall and his wing's sensory grids barely register in time the vibrations in the air as Soundwave's tentacle snakes toward his helm. Prowl rolls and feels the floor shudder under the impact of its vicious impalement.

The door-winger is on his pedes in a nano-klik_ (second)_ and barely manages to duck under the tentacle's next blinding assault. As the lone, unoccupied, viper-like limb corkscrews back at him, its end attachments twirling to give its attack extra damage, Prowl finds himself wishing irrationally for just a tad of his logic to return, even though he knows full well that the instant his logical core reboots he will probably crash from the sheer stupidity of the situation he has gotten himself into.

The black appendage strikes at his side and Prowl grabs at it again. What the frag is wrong with him?! That stupid move somehow keeps making sense in the heat of the moment! The tentacle writhes and slams him face first into the ground! Prowl's systems reel from the impact and he forces himself to stagger back up. Soundwave still hasn't moved from his position at all Prowl realizes with a sudden irritation spiking through him... this is a game to the faceless mech.

The door-winger dodges three of the tentacle's rapid strikes and then, of its on violation, his servo latches onto the limb again. Prowl curses himself internally as Soundwave pulls his appendage roughly toward himself to bring his adversary nearer. Instinctively, Prowl releases the snake-like limb and the tentacle recoils and slaps Soundwave in the faceplates... Oh, so that's what his crippled logical core was trying to get him to do.

Soundwave staggers back two steps. His grip on Bumblebee loosens and Prowl dives at the falling youngling. He catches the mechling in mid-air then ducks his helm and rolls with his momentum. His wings, still quivering and jerking from their meeting with the wall refuse to cooperate with his internal commands to fold inward and he ends up crashing down on top of them with a jolt! He mutes his vocalizer against the pained cry that struggles to be voiced as his sensory panels fold and crumple under his own weight and as he completes one complete somersault, he regains his pedes and runs like Unicron himself and the Pit is upon him.

"Running is/_futile and foolish_/ **course of action**/ Autobot," many voices stream down the closed in hall and echoes eerily in the dim, red lighting. The sound of a transformation clangs loudly in Prowl's audios as he rounds the corner and the roar of an aerial alternative mode vibrates the metal that covers the tactician's frame.

Panic grips at the mech as he picks up the pace into an all-out sprint. His agile and small frame allows him to round corners successfully at this pace and keeps him just a breath ahead of the Decepticon officer. Prowl growls in frustration as they approach another turn, but this time the Autobot doesn't just continue on. Instead he leaps against the steel wall, spark pulsating furiously! He takes two running steps up the unmoving barrier and pushes off with the third, executing a backflip and landing pedes first onto Soundwave's cockpit, shoving him into the ground! All three bots crash into Kaon's floors, rolling wildly in a mess of limbs with Bumblebee safely tucked to Prowl's chassis to keep him from harm.

Prowl's vision fritz slightly before it sharpens. He stumbles to his pedes and begins a clumsy run in the direction of the storage unit…he thinks. Prowl hears Soundwave's vocals static slightly as if suppressing a groan before the door-winger makes use of the head start he now has on the C.O. by booking it away from his foe.

Just as Prowl is beginning to think they somehow got turned around, he sees the storage unit come into view. Instead of taking the unavailable time to try and hack through the security coded door, Prowl sends three consecutive arm missiles at the door blowing it off its hinges. An indignant screech comes from under the rubble and Prowl concludes the red medic is back online. He pushes this information aside, deeming it redundant and scrambles for the exact coordinates of the last ground bridge.

"Bridge, now!" his demanding squall is sent over the shortwave since his usual communication link has long been rendered useless, courtesy of Soundwave. A split astro-second_ (1/2 second) _later the swirling blue and green orb of deliverance flickers into existence before him and another one of demise comes to life behind him! An angry Soundwave charges out of this portal, his tentacles reaching, closing the distance far to quickly for comfort!

Whatever happens, Bumblebee must make it! With a steeled resolve, Prowl leaps for their escape and at the same time hurtles Bumblebee through the ground bridge like a lobbing ball. The portal begins collapsing even before it reaches its full width... Soundwave has found them and is locking them out! Locking him in! Not on Prowl's watch!

The doorwinger sub-spaces both of his blasters and fires at the ground passing by his airborne frame. The force of the shots propels him forward and into the ground-bridge! Something latches onto Prowl's pedes at the last possible nano-klik_ (second) _and the tacticain realizes instantly what it is! Soundwave's long antennas grapple both of the flying Praxian's appendages, making him belt a half-angry, half-afraid bellow. He is not completely through the bridge yet... the bridge is closing, snapping back shut his window of escape! The black and white door-winger grits his denta and prepares for pain.

The bridge closes completely, slashing his pedes off in a loud, terrifying screech of metal! The agony is instant and blinding as his lower extremities are separated from his frame. A cry of pain catches in the back of his throat pipes as he crashes to the ground in a heap, energon jetting from the location of his missing appendages.

He hears someone ordering another to get more medics here immediately, it sounds like Elita. He doesn't know… he really doesn't care. Franticly, his optics search for the only thing on his processor at the moment. Pain... too much pain... Someone is shouting. His energy levels stutter and his frame jerks as he pushes himself to his servos and knee plates, his optics still scanning.

"Bumblebee…" he gasps out as he twists to find the youngling.

"Prowler, it's alright," a different set of vocals cuts through his muddled thoughts, "I've got 'im. He's fine."

"Hurt?" Prowl asks as he strains to see the shaking, yellow mechlet snared in someone's silver claws.

More bots have now arrived and the one that had been shouting before is now barking at him sharply, calling him a 'stupid-aft, idibot, slagger with a two bit, glitched up, fragging, piece of scrap for a processor' as the other bot that has Bumblebee is saying, "No, not too bad. He came flying through the bridge and I snagged 'im before he could hit the ground."

Prowl nods dumbly as he heaves air through his vents, then murmurs, "Take him to Ratchet."

"I'm here, you fragger! First Aid take the youngling to the Bay, be slagging quick about it. I'll deal with this dumb-aft," the gripping vocals snap right next to Prowl's audio. The door-winger flinches away from the noise and grits his denta as a splitting processor ache begins in the center of his optics. His helm is suddenly shaking as he tries to correct the one who claims to be Ratchet.

"No, Bee first."

"Prowl hold still, you're going to keel over if you don't slagging quit moving!" Someone else is now asking him what happened and the medic next to him turns with a yowl, saying, "Not now, Magnus!"

What did happen? Prowl shakes his helm to clear the suddenly fuzzy feeling that creeps between his audios and half blinds him with its rushing. Bumblebee had gotten out… through a ground bridge… to Kaon. Pain shoots through his helm at the realization. He had gone after him… Prowl himself had gone strolling into Kaon… with no plan… and had fought Soundwave…

Pop! Click, click!

Prowl's returning logical core freezes up and shuts his entire frame off in a crash.

* * *

Soundwave stands in place for a moment, uncomprehending the turn of events. He brings his two tentacles back to his mainframe and looks at the two black and white pedes that they grasp. Energon drips from the pedes and gets on the communication officer's slithering, black tentacles.

Interesting.

The Autobot had surprised him with his efficient escape. It had appeared that the Autobot was acting out of panic, Soundwave had wanted this to be the case. He could have then captured the mech whom his facial recognition programs identified as Prowl, the Autobot's Head Tactician. Lord Megatron would have been pleased.

Soundwave flicks the twin pedes from his grip, discarding the useless pieces of metal. Lord Megatron will not be pleased now. The Head Tactician had managed to gather his wits long enough to make his escape with the information he had taken from the Kaon Tactical Office, which was a considerable amount, according to Soundwave's scans. Lord Megatron will surely not be pleased.

Soundwave turns to leave the supply room. He must amplify his security network if the Autobots are now coming to Kaon on field trips with their sparklings. As he is leaving the supply room a voice calls out to him from beneath the rubble of the door that the Autobot had taken down with his weapon fire.

"Soundwave! Get me out of this mess! AHHHHHHHH!" a high pitched squeal fills the room and Soundwave continues on his way out of the storage room with the medic's vocals trailing after him, "There is a scratch! There is an infernal scratch upon my arm! Primus! There is another! Soundwave? Where are you going?! Soundwave return immediately! I am a medic! Soundwaaaaaaavvvve! I won't repair you the next time you're injured!"

Annoying.

The C.O. pauses and turns, sending a message to the medic's hulking, blue pet to come down to storage. He also transmits a map to the storage room so that the brute doesn't get lost on his journey.

"More pressing matters/_ aid is on its way_/ E.T.A. two kliks_ (1.2 earth min.)_," Soundwave replies in a garbled mashup of voices. As he is turning away he shamlessly resorts to using Megatron and Nighthawk's growling voices one after another for intimidating effects, "**In the event that**/ I'm injured /**you will**/ repair." The medic says nothing after that and continues moaning about his paint as Soundwave resumes his previous pathway.

Accessing the security cameras as he walks to get a location on Lord Megatron, the C.O. finds the large mech in the Tactical Office that the Autobot had just fleed a few kliks_ (1.2 earth min.)_ ago. Immediately he stops in his tracks. From the video feed Lord Megatron appears to be more than a little displeased… precautionary steps to self-conservancy must be put into effect.

Soundwave locates the Decepticon Third in Command without another thought and sends him a comm request when he spots him through the security videos… currently Starscream is in his quarters, blissfully unaware of what has just transpired, probably conniving another dimwitted plot to offline the Second in Command, Nighthawk. Soundwave always had found humor in watching the seeker's failed and completely pathetic attempts. Starscream would have to come up with a truly ingenious plan to succeed in his assassination endeavors, for the S.I.C. rivaled even Lord Megatron in shrewdness.

:: What do you want? :: Starscream asks rudely as he answers the link.

:: Requirement: Starscream's presence. Location: Tactical Office. Time: Now, :: Soundwave locks onto Starscream's coordinates and opens a small portal to his chambers. He steps through calmly and the seeker stares at him, mouthplates agape for a stunned moment before he throws a tantrum.

"You can't just come into my quarters unannounced, Soundwave! Show some decorum! Primus!" Starscream picks up a wad of datapads and throws them behind his berth with a frantic fling of his arm, and before they completely disappear behind the berth Soundwave catches sight of a crude drawing that somewhat resembles Commander Nighthawk with something that appears to be an energon axe splitting his helm.

Humorous.

"_Lord Megatron awaits_," Soundwave replies with a recording of the seeker's own shrill voice.

"But—"

Soundwave has already locked coordinates on the tactical office and has activated the necessary portal to the location. The T.I.C. scowls at him once before he straightens his shoulder struts and walks through the portal first as confident as a typical seeker, muttering irratably as he goes. As Soundwave follows him and emerges in the Tactical office he finds that Commander Nighthawk has arrived at Lord Megatron's location since he checked the video feeds last.

"Soundwave, what happened?" Lord Megatron asks without turning around. The calm in his master's vocals stirs uneasiness in the C.O.'s gears, but he remains as unwavering as ever as he gives his reply.

"Autobot Head Tactician, Prowl/** I pursued**/ **according to my readings**/_acquired some valuable information before_/ he escaped," Soundwave says without movement.

Lord Megatron turns now and glares with a breathtaking calm that belies the fury that burns in his raging, red optics, "How valuable?"

The C.O. transmits his findings to the warlord and watches from behind his blackened facial visor as unaltered anger transforms his master's faceplates into a snarl. As Soundwave predicted, Lord Megatron needed an outlet. Talons rake across Starscream's faceplates and the seeker sails across the room with a squawk erupting from his vocalizer.

Self-conserving, precautionary measures appear to be founded. Injury has been avoided.

"Master?" Nighthawk questions with an utmost professionalism that halts the warlord from following the current target of his anger across the room to vent more of his rage, "What has the Autobot taken?"

"Too much," Megatron hisses as he swivels on his heel strut and kicks at the deactivated frame of one of the tacticians that the Autobot had slain with his high voltage shot. Soundwave takes note that the blackened point of entry on this particular mech is on his skidplate.

Intriguing.

"Soundwave, how long until the Autobot tactical division pieces together the information that they have appropriated?" Lord Megatron is asking as Soundwave sits in silent humor at what he has found. Instantly the C.O. makes the quick calculations. He factors in the Head Tactician's rumored brilliant processor along with his own witness to the mech's erratic and unsound behavior. He also includes the possibility of time lost on the Autobots' part to deal with the tactician's injuries and the lightly damaged sparkling.

"_Two joors_," Soundwave replies finally, using the hissing voice of Arachnid.

Lord Megatron does not move for a moment. His optics narrow and finally move to the large computer screen in front of them that maps out their plan of attack. The plan that the Autobot had taken with him. The plan that will, no doubt, be discovered, and soon. A leer folds into the warlord's mouthplates as he looks upon his conspiracy, "Well then… we will just have to move up our timetable."

* * *

_Well, I tried to end it better than the last one, but I think it ended worse. Hey, on the bright side, Prowl and Bee are safe! Yay! (celebration dance) I hope I didn't write Soundwave too O. ... :(_

_On a different topic. My computer is kind of wacked out again so if you see any mistakes that can NOT be ignored and is a visual eye sore then please tell me. I want to know. I will fix it._

_As usual, let me know what you think. R and R. I love to hear back from readers. :)_


	18. Chapter 17

_Okay, its been a while. The good news is I've almost got this story completely finished so all that's left to do is edit and post. As per the usual please read and review, it makes me happy. That is all. :P_

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

* * *

"Soundwave, you know what to do. Signal for Galvatron to ready his troops," Megatron stalks towards the exit of the Tactical Office with his processor already working double, "I want all predetermined Decepticon forces to be mobilizing within the joor. If we are going to have maximum impact in this strike we must..." Megatron pauses and glances at his C.O. whose tentacle raises to gain his attention. The warlord blinks impatiently, "Yes?"

"Incoming hail from... _Galvatron_," Soundwave's speakers play using Nighthawk's and Blitzer's voices to construct his sentence.

Megatron grunts, "Perfect timing. Why is he hailing you?"

"**Bridging to location now,**" Soundwave uses Galvatron's own words to convey the other mech's current actions.

Even before the C.O. is finished speaking a portal is opened. Galvatron arrives with a scowl on his faceplates as per the usual.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Megatron asks.

Galvatron says nothing. He walks silently to the tactical computers and, much to Megatron's irritation, looks almost amused at the damage. With a sniff of contempt the bigger mech turns with his servos crossing over his chestplates.

''I have an issue."

Megatron forces smile that feels condescending, "I highly doubt it is of a more pressing quality than mine. Plans that have taken nearly a vorn to put into place are being unraveled before my optics."

"I have heard."

Megatron's optics narrow. That would mean that Galvatron has one of his mechs keeping tabs on him. Silently the warlord vows to find the informant and offline him in the most painful way he knows.

"I assume you've come to inform me of your issues?" Megatron's irritation bleeds through his words.

"To show you," Galvatron replies cryptically. He produces a small drive from his subspace and places it into the port of one of the undamaged computers. As the drive loads Megatron glares at the side of the mech's faceplates. By the time the computer brings up the file Galvatron intended to show him, Megatron has contemplated shooting him five times.

The screen brings up what appears to be security feed of a femme at Darkmount, Galvatron's base of operations. Megatron says nothing as he attempts to decipher what the problem is. His facial recognition immediately displays that the femme is Galvatron's own creation, Blitzer. The femme seems to have gotten more well endowed as she ages further into maturity. The video shows her walking down a hall. Down another hall. And another.

Megatron sighs in impatience, "This had better not be a waste of my time, Galvatron."

Scarcely do the words leave his mouthplates does the video show the femme entering her own quarters. A smaller, vaguely familiar bot rushes to meet her ecstatically and the two embrace. They stand there then move further into the room and sit, apparently just conversing for the pleasure of each other's company. They stay there for quite some time. Megatron frowns, such action is something only shared by close friends or family unites. He knows this because he used to do that exact thing when he was young; eagerly greeting his father and then telling him each and every boring detail of his cycle. The unbidden thought is banished as quickly as it springs into existence.

"Is there a point to be made with all this?" Megatron inquires blandly, growing increasingly irritable the longer he is delayed.

"You created this... this _problem_," Galvatron finally spits, breaking his silence.

"So your femme has bonds. She's weak. I fail to see how I played a part in it."

"You don't recognize your own metal when you see it?" Galvatron taunts and Megatron snarls in response.

"Take care of how you speak, Galvatron!"

Galvatron laughs. He laughs. It takes all of Megatron's self control not to go on a gladiatorial-like rampage.

When the other mech speaks again its almost with ironic vocals, "Think back to your own attempt at gaining an heir and recall what that resulted in."

It doesn't take much to remember _that_ embarrassing fiasco. The fact that it had taken place so shorty after the entire plot to kill his family unit went sour was only added insult. Megatron had selected a fembot he had thought would produce a strong creation and, strictly out of the necessity for an heir, had taken her as his own. When she produced it was a stunted, twiggy femmelet. That was the end of that scheme.

Megatron scowls as he remembers; he had ordered for the runt to be dealt with and it just so happened that Galvatron had been there with his two creations, Blitzer an the now offlined Extractor. Blitzer had asked that he bestow the scraplet to her and when she bargained that she would run lowkey mission in return he agreed against his better judgement. After all the best way to keep an equal under you is to hold a leverage... Blitzer provided that leverage against Galvatron whether he realized it or not.

"She kept it," Megatron observes vaguely.

Judging by Galvatron's hostile expression he is correct. He goes further.

"I take it she has developed strong ties to the femmeling?"

"Stronger than I anticipated, she took on the roll of its primary caregiver and has since been the femmelet's guardian. I do not now how deeply her ties run, but in lieu of my own enlightenment of the damage bonds can cause I won't allow it to continue. She is my sole remaining heir and I won't have her potential marred by your failed attempt at one."

Megatron considers if he should take offense but decides against it. After all, the mech is right.

"I still don't understand how this is my problem."

Galvatron rips the drive from the computer with a growl, "It needs to be taken care of, but quietly. Primus knows how deeply my creation has allowed her bonds to root. Given how highly I value her I won't risk turning her against me by personally eliminating the femmeling... this is why I've come to you."

A leer crawls its way over Megatron's faceplates, "You need my help."

Galvatron hisses as if the very thought is agonizing but nods, "I presume I can rely on your discretion."

Megatron tips his helm in a noncommited nod, "We do have somewhat of a partnership, do we not?"

This seems to appease the other mech a little and he nods in return. One glance from Megatron to Soundwave and a portal swirls to life before them. Galvatron spares one last look at his equal before turning to his exit.

"Expect a file soon on the commencement of the plan," Megatron says to his retreating backstruts. Much to his irritation the larger mech doesn't even acknowledge his words.

As soon as the bridge between bases disappears he frowns. This is an added annoyance... Of course it won't be hard, staging the death of one as insignificant as that runt. The problem will be when... and who. His optics furrow in concentration as he incorporates Galvatron's hiccup into his grand scheme. It would be very convenient if the femmelet happened to offline in the upcoming events. Perhaps Galvatron could arrange for her to be placed in the heat of things. He could then place the duty on one of his own mechs to ensure the femmelet doesn't live to see the next cycle.

"Soundwave," Megatron says as the final pieces of the plan fall into place.

The ever present C.O. is beside him in an instant, his screened faceplates black and blank as he awaits his orders.

"Summon for Starscream, I have a special assignment for him."

* * *

Lights. Blinding white lights above. A berth too cold beneath. Pain stabs into Prowl's consciousness as his optics flicker back online. His pedes feel like molten metal and his helm like he's been on a overcharged binge for an orn. Someone is hovering over him, muttering angrily.

"Ratchet?" Prowl asks, lifting his helm to see if its who he deduced it is.

"Lay down, you fragger! Unless you want to leak out onto my floor!"

Yes, it is Ratchet.

"Where is Bumblebee?" Prowl inquires automatically, rising up to his elbow struts to look for the mechlet, "Is he okay?" Dizziness swarms his sight with black and it takes all of his remaining motor functions to stay upright.

"He can wait," Ratchet growls in return as he worries over the tactician.

Prowl sits straighter and demands, "No, treat Bumblebee first."

"Lay down right now before I slagging clock you, you impudent youngling!" Ratchet yells, trying to push Prowl down. The fatigue almost prompts Prowl to let him, but the ever present picture of Bumblebee in Soundwave's grasp won't let him rest. He could've done something to his son, infected him with some sort of virus...

"I will not cooperate until you have checked Bumblebee first," Prowl growls.

A look of anger flashes across Ratchet's faceplates. For a nano-klik the two have a heated staredown before the medic turns, "First Aid, Jolt, take care of this aft until I'm done with the mechling. Don't let him get up!" He stalks toward the berth where Bumblebee is perched with Boomerang fussing over him, all the while growling something about 'a slagwad of sedatives would fix that fragger real quick'.

Bumblebee doesn't take his optics off of Prowl as Ratchet begins to work on his minor injuries. The mechlet's yellow frame vibrates and jerks spasmodically as he tries to calm his own crying; possibly seeing Prowl back online is the only thing keeping him from completely regressing into weeping. Prowl can see he is refraining from reaching his short arms in his direction.

The med bay doors suddenly hiss open, granting entrance to Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus.

Prowl finds that he cannot bring himself to look at the Prime, knowing the disappointment he is going to find in his commander's cerulean optics. Silence stretches through the medical wing with the only sounds coming from the trio in the corner; Bumblebee, Ratchet, and Boomerang.

"Prowl," Optimus' vocals are deep enough to rumble the door-winger's chest cavity and Prowl cringes, "what happened?"

The question is straight forward, Prowl can detect no judgment... but the tactician cannot help the immense shame flooding his core. He is supposed to be the mechlet's guardian, his care taker, and he let Bumblebee go to the Decepticon base of operations. Statistically he has got to be the worst creator in the history of Cybertron. How could he let this happen... How did happen? What are the chances that the mechlet would get on the bridging control desk unseen and push all the right buttons to bridge himself to Kaon, accidently breaching Soundwave's security?

The sheer implausibility hurts Prowl's processor to even think upon it.

"I do not know," he manages to keep his vocal level even though he is nearly breaking inside. The horror at the thoughts of Bumblebee being captured by the cons continues to play mercilessly through his processor. Soundwave capturing his Bumblebee. Bumblebee being tortured at Decepticon servos. His son being offlined. Prowl shutters his optics and reins his emotional core back into submission. He carefully shuts down the emotional side of his core before it starts to clash too much with his logic and sends him back into stasis.

"Prowl," Optimus says again.

His tone demands the H.T. to look at him and the black and white mech relents instantly. The Prime's optics has a defined guise of sorrow as he gazes at the mech. He is going to say somethin he knows will not be received well, Prowl realizes, and swiftly begins running all possible phrases that would cause Prime to act as such through his computers. The one that actually does leave his leader's lip plates catches him completely off guard.

"The sparkling is being relocated to the New Life Iacon Youth Sector, effective immediately. You have been relieved of your guardianship of Bumblebee…I'm sorry."

Prowl's spark stutters and he tries to grasp what was just spoken to him. They... they are taking Bee away from him?

"No," Prowl says softly. Optimus' sympathetic gaze doesn't leave his and a sudden prickling anger courses through Prowl's system like a potent vires. He sits up even straighter if at all possible. He feels his emotional core trying to reboot but he can find it in him to care at the moment. "You cannot do that," he hisses menacingly, not even taking in consideration to whom he is speaking to.

"We _are_ sorry Prowl," Ultra Magnus says from beside Optimus, all the power of Prowl's wrathful glare is redirected to the older of the brothers, "Everyone agrees that this is for the best."

"You have no right to take him," Prowl says taking care to keep his vocals down and his spark as calm as possible for his son's sake. The anger still audibly leaks into every word. The two brothers exchange a pained glance that boils Prowl's anger to an even higher level and he begins to se red in the corners of his vision.

Ultra Magnus clears his throat pipes softly before speaking again, his vocals gaining the commanding quality he used when speaking to his soldiers, "Tactician, if you can honestly say that you cannot see the logic in this course of action, then we will allow you to remain the sparkling's guardian."

Rage flushes through Prowl's systems again and his fans billow angrily. How dare he bring logic into this argument?! This isn't a matter of logic it a matter of Bumblebee and his future! What does Ultra Magnus think is the most logical? Sending him away to a youth sector?! The thought is preposterous!

"If you had been captured you would have endangered thousands of mechs and femmes with the absolute amount of information the Decepticons could have obtained from you." Ultra Magnus is saying and Prowl's processor screeches to a halt. His vents catch and he slowly lets himself down to lay on the medical berth.

Coldness creeps into his wires. Processor scans. He knows, he's seen. Jazz does them all the time on high intel prisoners. He just hadn't considered. His processor runs swiftly over the events as he stares blankly at the ceiling. If he had been captured, as the Autobot H.T. he would have certainly been interrogated. His mind would have been invaded, all his knowledge laid bare. Everything he possesses, all the information about his comrades; their future plans, fighting styles, weaknesses in security... everything. Not even Optimus Prime or the Autobot second-in-command, Sonic-blaster, harbors as much intel on their ranks as he does. He put all his fellow soldiers in danger just because he couldn't see past his own needs... Prowl's optics shutter in guilt and self-lothing because he know with absolute certainty that if the same situation occurred, even with the information he now has, he would not change his course of action. He would still go through the groundbridge after Bumblebee and that is what disturbs him so greatly. He holds the life of one sparkling above all the troops stationed beneath him...

With this in mind he concludes that he has two choices in his situation; he can let Bumblebee be relocated to the youth sector and remove the problem from his performance as the Head Tactician or he can resign. Prowl's spark recoils at the thought of the first possibility.

He starts to contemplate the second... if he did leave.

What would he and Bumblebee's future hold, living on a planet plunged in civil war? Nothing. Nothing besides hiding and wondering when the next Decepticon attack is coming.

Prowl continues on to the inevitable thought of getting off planet. They could leave, but where would they go? All Bumblebee would have is him. A part of Prowl whispers that that would be okay but the louder part of him screams how selfish that would be. He knows he can't leave and condemn his son to a fruitless future. At least if he stays with the Autobots he is fighting for his son's future. A future where he can worry about typical youngling things such as femmes and whatnot.

Prowl slowly sits back up, ignoring the Ratchet's griping from where he is finishing up on Bumblebee, and he gives the brothers an intense, displeased glare but he nods his helm regardless to show his acceptance.

"Ratchet, bring Bumblebee here please," Prowl requests. Surprisingly his vocals are strong and even. The C.M.O. looks between the brothers sad faceplates and the tactician's tight expression and complies with the mech's request. He gently places Prowl's charge into his arms with apprehension.

Bumblebee's whole frame relaxes as he grips onto Prowl's chest plating firmly. His quivering stops within a nano-klik. The pair stays this way for some time ignoring the bots around them before Prowl gently draws Bumblebee away from his chassis and looks into his optics.

"Bumblebee," he says gently with a small forced smile, "you are going to have to go away for a while, okay?"

Bumblebee's optics widen with horror and fear, "No!" he cries pitifully as he tries to reattach himself to Prowl's chest, "No, Po'w!"

"Bee, listen to me," the mech says as he draws the mechlet optic level, inches from his own faceplates. Bumblebee grips onto his creator's faceplates in desperation as huge tears stream down his cheek plates but he quiets as he waits for what Prowl has to say. "You are going to meet lots of new friends and you will like it there."

"No! Bee sowry Po'w! Bee won't pway with bwob or try to hide again! Pweese!" he begs spark-brokenly causing Prowl's throatpipes to constrict painfully.

"It is not your fault," Prowl manages to tell his distraught son, this time there's a distinct waver in his words, "it was what I did Bee, I am sorry." Wetness gathers in the corners of the mech's optics and he feels his constructed control slowly crumbling. Gently he presses his helm to the sparkling's yellow one to hide his tears from Bumblebee. It would not due to stress the mechlet anymore than he already is.

Bumblebee grips Prowl's cheek plating as sobs and pleas continue to rack his tiny frame,"Bee sowry," he repeats brokenly in appeal. Prowl can't bring himself to meet the mechlet's gaze as he continues to beg, "Bee woves Po'w, Pweese!"

Prowl presses his lip plates together as he barely keeps his own frame from trembling with emotion. He gently draws his son back to his chest holds the weeping mechlet there so he can draw comfort from close proximity to his spark one last time.

Then he pulls away.

"Be a good mechlet. I love you too, Bee," Prowl whispers before he looks up to his commanders.

Ultra Magnus steps forward after a long pause to take the sparkling from Prowl's arms. This action immediately gets a rise from Bumblebee who screams bloody murder. Ultra Magnus holds him to his chest and turns away from the tactician who's helm his forced away from his creation. Bumblebee manages to scramble to the large blue mech's shoulder to reach for Prowl.

"No! Po'w!" Bumblebee shrieks desperately, "Bee don't wanna go! Po'w, pweese!"

Prowl's spark shudders at the amount of grief flowing through their bond and tries to keep his to a minimal so as to not frighten Bumblebee. Judging by the mechlet's screams he doing a piss poor job of it. Against his will his optics lift to Bumblebee's and their gazes lock. The deep blue of his creation's optics nearly break him ask they overflow with heartbroken tears. His optics never leave his son's until the med bay door closes, separating them forever.

Prowl's helm slowly straightens until he is staring blankly ahead. He listens to Bumblebee's cries echo through the base and they shred his spark at mercilessly. Nobody in the med bay speaks or moves until the sounds of the mechlet are long gone. Prowl barely notices when First Aid removes a crying Boomerang from the room, he doesn't feel Optimus Prime put a sorrowful servo on his shoulder before he leaves, nor he does notice when Ratchet and Jolt begin to repair his damages or reattach new appendages. He doesn't even notice when Ratchet draws back from his data pad as if the information on it were a scraplet... But he does notice when Ratchet sends Jolt back to his quarters and the C.M.O. retreats to his office.

He is alone. And it is here in the empty med bay that Prowl cries.

Every last bit of his pent emotion streams down his faceplates as his memories conjure his son and Firefly. Things weren't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to be together in Praxus, walking through the crystal gardens servo in servo. She would say its close enough to perfect... A bitter sob manages to escape from behind his gritted denta. Well it couldn't be any further from perfect if it tried. Separated by death and war, he family is scattered when it scarcely begun.

His helm swims as his emotional core tries to overtake him once more, he needs to calm himself. If he could distract his processor from the problem, even minutely it would give him time to come into terms with his situation. Tactical equations, work, problem solving; these would help. The drive he took from Kaon would present an opportunity to do all three. That would do the trick.

He sits up as he comms Piston and barely notices the liquid that rivers down his cheek plating when he does this. His emotions are settled firmly into second place priority.

::Piston::

::Hey Prowl, you doing alright?::

Prowl ignores his question, ::I require your assistance. Please make your way to the Medical Bay to retrieve me from Ratchet's watch.::

::Are you sure that's wise?::

Prowl rephrases, ::Make your way to the Medical Bay to retrieve me.::

And Piston does.

* * *

Optimus slowly walks from the Med Bay with a burning ache in his spark. Now what? Continue on through existence he supposes... get back to a normal routine that doesn't involve a sparkling in almost every aspect._ For now, _Optimus reminds himself with a gathering apprehension in his stomach. The cycle will come that he and Elita's own will be sparked to life and what then? How long would it take before he would be tried in such a way as Prowl just was? But not only as a guardian, as the tactician was to Bumblebee, but as a Creator... a father.

The Prime feels Elita's gentle questioning over their bond, she is worried. His internal struggle must've leaked through to her. Quickly Optimus comms her to reassure her he is fine but when he hears her vocals all that comes from his mouthplates is "where are you".

::I'm in our quarters,:: she responds with more worry seeping into her tone.

::I am coming to you,:: Optimus says without thought and he redirects his pedes to take him to their shared private quarters. His jaw squares tightly and he keeps his optics focused forward until he reaches their door. He can make out the steady pulse of Elita's energy inside and he nearly backs out of speaking with her. How would she look at him when she heard what he had done to a sparkling and its guardian?

The chamber door opens before he can enter the code and Elita is standing on the other side with concern radiating off of her. As he enters and the door closes behind him Optimus tries to give his mate smile and suddenly he is almost crying. With his mouthplates drawn in a tightened line he turns away from her as he speaks.

"I didn't know what else to do."

Her arms encircle him from behind softly and as her helm presses against his back, Optimus realizes he is shaking.

"Whatever happened, I know that you did it with pure intentions, Optimus."

"I sent Bumblebee to the youth sectors," he says and he waits for her to draw away. She doesn't.

She whispers, "Was there any way?"

Optimus swallows. He knows what she is asking. Was there any possible way Prowl could keep Bumblebee?

"Even if we would look past this whole incident, Elita," Optimus begins his vocals even softer than hers, "Prowl's logic would've never allowed it. And the even bigger problem is this..." his sentence trails off as he summons his courage.

"What?"

"If Prowl had not gone to Kaon to get Bumblebee…I would have."

The pink commander's arms pull away from his waist and she circles to face him. Her optics stay steady as she analyzes her mate.

Optimus' helm drops fractionally until he is staring at the floor between their pedes, "The decision I made was not only because of Prowl's willingness to put Bumblebee's safety above everyone else's on this base, but also my own. I couldn't..." Optimus struggles to voice his next words, "I couldn't let myself form that strong of an attachment."

Her servos are on his faceplates then forcing his optics to stare deep into her own, "Bonds are not a weakness, Optimus. They're what separates us from our enemy, what makes the Autobots different and stronger. We feel. We love. We_ live._ Don't mistake caring as a flaw..." Her optics drop fractionally, "I believe that you did what was best in the circumstances you where given. Just don't let this make you afraid to live, Optimus."

Optimus' lip components tip upward minutely, "You always were the wiser out of the pair of us."

"We both know that's not true, Optimus Prime," his sparkmate says as she gently draws him into a hug.

As they stand in embrace he basks in the feel of her. Her strong spark sends pulses steadily through her wires and if he holds perfectly still he can feel it humming through her systems. His servo sensors pick up an irregularity in her spark though as he places them flat against the small of her back and without thought he draws them to her stomach. He catches it even more clearly here... the soft thrum of another spark inside of her.

He should be afraid. After all, the cycle may come when someone else will deem it necessary to take his sparkling away because of his inability to think like a leader when it is in danger. He should be very afraid, but he isn't.

The blue and red mech smiles faintly and Elita draws back from their hug to look at him.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks with her own smile forming.

"About how much fun it's going to be to scare off mechs if this little thing turns out to be a femmling," Optimus says with a chuckle. The lie tastes bad on his glossa but as Elita's expression brightens he feels it was the right thing to say.

"Yeah, well we will see how long you're laughing in the event that that does happen," Elita jokes lightly.

Optimus smirks and lets himself join her in her jesting, knowing full well how much she adored it when he did, "I will still be laughing because I have a cannon."

"You wouldn't dare!"

He laughs, "Oh I would."

An incoming comm from Prowl draws him away from the moment and he sighs heavily, "It looks like I need to get back to work." He kisses Elita on the top of her helm gently and with the feel of his mate and his sparkling alive under his servo he feels a little more optimistic about the future.

* * *

"Scan drive 4401-65 for viruses," Prowl says from his position in the tactical office. He folds his servos behind his backstruts as the tacticians scramble to obey his orders.

"Scan commencing," comes the reply, and less than a klik later, "Scan complete, drive approved for inspection."

"Bring up the contents of flash drive 4401-65 on the main screen." Yes sires follow his order and the screen turns white, glyphs begin to file across in a typed manner. Another klik passes and Prowl hears someone sigh in impatience. His doorwings tick in annoyance as he feels Piston's presence hovering over his left shoulder for any signs of fatigue, ready to comm Ratchet in a moment's notice. Prowl tries to ignore him by focusing on the task at hand. He catches one tactician looking at him in pity. A glare later and the pitying mech is hunched over his work with his fans blasting in embaressment. Irritation bites at Prowl even more.

"Opening drive," comes an underling's voice and suddenly numbers are flying across the screen in rapid succession.

"What is this?" Prowl monotones

"I'm not sure sir, all computers indicate that all is well... I'm guessing this is what was on the drive."

Prowl frowns. Numbers? Why numbers? The only possible explanation is its a catalog for dates, times or locations...

"Search the numbers as coordinates."

The bot to his left types in a rapid series of numbers and his screen begins pinpointing the locations listed. Red dots cover the screen endlessly.

Uneasiness tugs at Prowl's gears as the dots continue to liter across the holographic map. He approaches the computer and stands at the shoulder of the mech who is still logging numbers into the search engine. The H.T. barely notices that Piston follows him closely, still hovering. The amount of pinpointed locations grow, there's even one in the middle of where Iacon would be on the map.

Finally the tactician stops and looks at him, "All coordinates have been logged, sir."

"Check for any and all connections between these locations..."

Piston chooses this moment to say quietly into his audio, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Prowl responds curtly without turning to look at his second.

"If you're lying and you collapse after I sprung you from Med Bay I'm going to be in parts."

Prowl levels him with a flat stare, "I am well. That is all that matters."

"Prowl..." the afore mentioned mech narrows his gaze so Piston amends his speech, "Sir, I'm only concerned that you're pushing yourself too harshly."

The doorwinger's mouthplates part to answer but his response is interrupted by a softly spoken curse. Prowl's optics relocate to the source and find the tactician at the computer sitting back with wide optics and a horrified expression.

"Report," Prowl demands and the tactician turns his gaze to his superior.

"All locations have one similar aspect, sir... they're all Youth Sectors."

The floor feels as if its fallen out from under Prowl's pedes. The youth sectors? Bumblebee is- Prowl cuts off the thought before it has even fully formed. His duty is first and foremost to the Autobots. He cannot, no, he _will not_ repeat his past transgressions no matter who is in harm's way. First he must complete his duties, then he can worry about his son.

"Continue combing the file for any possible indication of specific measures the Decepticons intend to take against these locations, I will alert Optimus Prime immediately," he whirls and comms the Prime even before the words are fully out of his lip plates.

::Yes Prowl?::

::The drive I secured earlier this cycle has been analyzed and there is probable evidence that the Decepticons intend to conduct an attack on youth sectors across Cybertron.::

Silence.

::I'm on my way. Comm all the necessary bots.::

::Yes Prime.::

::Is there any indication when and where these attacks will take place?::

::Logically if there were it has been changed by now. They will likely attack as soon as they can be rallied.::

Prowl's emotional core stutters when he hears the Prime softly whisper Bumblebee's designation. He quickly begins spouting logic to shut his emotions out, ::Commander Ultra Magnus took the sparkling to the Iacon youh sector New Life, Prime. The likelihood of the Deceptcons conducting a successful attack on the New Life youth sector is very low. 2.005 in fact. To get to it they would have to know how to route their ground bridges through the Iaconian defense systems and...:: Prowl stops. He turns slowly back to the computer and stares at the unucounted numbers...

An alarm suddenly blares throughout the Autobot base. Red lights flash wildly and the loud siren wails its warning.

_They would have to know the weaknesses in Iacon's defense shields. _

Prowl hears Sonic-blaster storming down the hall yelling orders to his subservient soldiers, sending bots running to obey his commands. As soon as he sees Prowl he zones in on him.

"Prowl, the Decepticons are launching an attack on Iacon, we'll need the best possible countermeasures ready in two kliks, so gather your mechs and report to the bridging hanger ASAP."

The doorwinger doesn't need to be told twice. Already the street footage from traffic cameras are coming in through the computers. Prowl can make out Decepticon ground troops, a small number of aerials and, from the sound of it, one seeker trine. They will need to immobilize the mechs in the air first before they will be able to aid the youth sector at all. If they position snipers on the city buildings they could bring them down...

"We have incoming distress hails from cities Celloid, Quartzium, Bellacix, Helium, Deltech, Sussek, Xor, Dirafum, Keet . All reporting hostile Decepticon forces moving on areas inside the city limits," Piston raps out the information.

More video clips are streaming in and Prowl zones in on the details given. Ground troops at all, aerials at Celloid, Helium, Deltech, Xor, and Keet. Seeker trines more dispersed, probably with the intention of being the last resort.

"Piston, you remain here at the tactical office with five others. Inform me of any new developments, the rest of you with me," Prowl says as he turns toward the exit, his processor churning as he does. In the klik it takes the tacticians to reach the bridging hanger Piston has reported five more attacks on different cities. Prowl efficiently sorts through every byte of data his second sends in a nano-klik and by the time Optimus Prime arrives to the hanger, his own team battle ready behind him, the doorwinger has found the least damaging solution.

"Prowl, report," Optimus Prime says.

"My deduction is that it is a strike operation the enemy has launched, ergo they want to inflict maximum damage with as little loses to themselves as possible. Hence it is safe to believe that the best course of action would be to send in snipers first to disable their airpower to minimize casualties and to slow their assault. With the absence of any aerial support there is a 31.100% chance that many of the grounders would fall back when our forces arrive..." Prowl pauses, "My data shows that we have enough troops stationed here to aid five of the fourteen cities hailing for our assistance. We should focus on the ones who are being hit the hardest and trust that the cities' defense troops and whatever Autobot forces stationed in those cities will be sufficient for the time being."

"Very well," the Prime replies, "We'll focus our efforts on Iacon, Helium, Deltech, Xor, and Keet. Sonic-blaster, Ultra Magnus, Chromia, and Jazz ready your teams. Prowl, I want you to remain here."

Prowl's mouthplates drop and he actually sputters, "But..."

"You've just been injured I will not allow you to go charging back into war without clearance. You may aid us from the tactical office if you are feeling adequate to the task."

His mouthplates snap back closed and rebellion rises up his throat like vomit. Is Optimus telling him to sit here and twiddle his thumb digits while his son could be offlining? Not trusting himself to speak he only nods stiffly. It takes a moment for him to realize that he has no intention of actually staying put, as per the Prime's orders. He tries to keep his expression neutral of any deviousness but one bot notices his mental decision immediately. As Optimus turns and addresses the rest of the bots there, informing them of their duties and their mission Jazz edges over next to Prowl. He is checking his weapons to try to look inconspicuous and Prowl gives him a sidelong look as the saboteur speaks to him softly.

"Bee's in the Iacon sector. Ultra Magnus is heading that one but the fire power's pretty heavy in that area... Seeker's have been dropping on it since the attack started" Jazz snaps his subspace back closed, "Just whatever you end up doing Prowler, be careful."

Optimus is finishing his instructions and the ground bridges are opening. Prowl stands there obediently as the troops are dispersed through the portals to their assignments one team at a time. Just before Jazz trots through he makes a catch you later gesture with one servo which Prowl does not return. The ground bridging tech dies down and Prowl turns with a purpose burning in his spark.

_Hold on, Bee. I am coming..._


End file.
